Fighter Pilots do it Better

Stretching the Truth, the Whole Truth, and Nothing but. . .

2010-10-17T17:19:00.000-07:00

I sometimes wonder about lies that people tell, and the reasons they tell them. To keep from hurting feelings, and attempt to stay out of trouble are probably the two main reasons, and most people will admit it (if only to themselves). The problem with lies is that they compound a problem, because once told, they need constant reinforcement. Some people are so good at it that they (almost) end up believing it themselves. But they almost always get tripped up or, in a bout of conscience, "come clean". Coming clean before getting caught is always better. I remember a "whopper" that I told that could have cost me my job. But first, a little background:

I was working in the machine shop of a defense contractor. My foreman was a good man, as were most of the supervisors in the shops. The assistant foreman in the weld shop was the father of a guy that I had gone to school with. He and I had not been "close friends", but we had "hung out" together during P.E. class, mainly because neither of us were highly athletic. He was kind of a brainy kid with nonexistent social skills. Nowadays we call them Nerds. Anyway, this kid was a "Junior", meaning that he had been named after his father. So I recognized the name of his father. His father had built some (for lack of a better description) sculptures out of metal: two humanoid forms that he had on either side of his driveway. One of them had an "arm" out holding the mailbox. The other held a garbage can with each arm. I had seen these works of welders' art many times over the years. I knew whose house it was, although I had not yet met his father, and had not figured out that his dad was a welder.

The State of Florida made a mistake that they later corrected. They allowed the drinking age to drop to 18. I happened to be 19 years old when it took effect. I was visiting one of the favored watering holes one Saturday afternoon. I was seated at the bar nursing a beer, and happened to overhear a conversation between some guys about my age seated a few seats away from me. The conversation centered around a prank that one of the guys had been a party to. It involved the digging up and theft of one of the "metal men" that I mentioned earlier. The story was highly entertaining and many aspects of the escapade were described in great detail, from the month and year to how they had placed the metal man in a phone booth at the junior high, from placing the phone in its "hand" to calling the police and reporting a spaceman from another planet at the junior high. I chuckled to myself, because I knew whose metal men they were talking about. A few months later, I was transferred to the weld shop, where I eventually got the opportunity to learn the trade that would support me for the next 30 or more years. As in the machine shop, my welding foreman was a pretty good guy. He was always up for a practical joke, as long as nobody got hurt and nobody got into a fight over it. One afternoon, I saw him and the assistant foreman talking. After the assistant foreman (my friend's dad) left the shop, I went over to talk to the foreman. Knowing that he had a rich sense of humor, I related every detail from the "metal man caper" with one added detail: I included myself, as if I had been right in the middle of it all. He thought it was funny, then gently reminded me to "get back to work". I got back to my welding, and when I looked up, my boss was gone. About 5 minutes later, when I raised my welding helmet, the ASSISTANT FOREMAN was standing right next to me. And I couldn't tell if he was in a good mood or not. He had wondered for almost a year what had happened, and now, here was the "guilty party".

"Next time you take my girl out, make sure she makes it home", he said to me. Caught by surprise, I could only sputter "that is a GIRL?" He started laughing, and now, up to my eyeballs in the lie, I answered his questions, filling in any details that I had earlier left out, but had overheard. The man didn't trust me for years. He later was promoted to foreman, and I was subject to his criticism and scorn. To try to set things right, and tell him that I actually had no part in the aforementioned escapade, would not have been an option. He would have trusted me even less. He and I were like "oil and water" for years. I remember him telling me one time, after one of our heated exchanges, "If I didn't need you, I'd fire you right now." To which I replied, "I guess it's a good thing that I'm such a good welder!" He spat on the floor and walked away.

About a year earlier, we the bosses had called one of their "all hands meetings", where they would fill us in on pending contracts, workloads, etc. Usually, there were one or more "problems" that were also addressed: people using their sick leave to go fishing (one person was actually spotted fishing when he had called in "sick"), or not calling in if one was not going to be at work that day. "The next person that does not come in, and does not call in, will be fired". Guess who the next person was. Thankfully, the powers-that-were decided not to fire me, but did place a letter in my file that I had to sign ackowledging that there would not be another incidence. Grateful that I still had a job, I looked the Director of Personell in the eye and told him that I would prove to him that he had made the right decision, and that in 3 years, I would be the "best welder" in the Company. I always made it a point to call in after that.

Anyway, my foreman and I were at constant odds. I used to (literally) dream of ways to make sure he had an "accident". One day, he and I (we still had to WORK together) were rearranging an area of the shop, he directing me on the forklift. The forks were up about three feet off the floor, and he walked in front of me. (This part still ashames me, and scares me to this day). I felt my foot start to slide off of the clutch pedal. I had a brief vision, just a millisecond, of him being impaled on one of the forks. I slammed on the brakes, dropped the forks, and turned off the engine. "I gotta hit the men's room", I said by way of explanation. I went in the bathroom and started shaking. Luckily, he had never known or noticed just how close he came to possibly dying. And, luckily for me, it was almost time to go home for the day. I requested, and was granted, a week off. I did a lot of thinking and soul-searching during the next week. I saw, and faced up to the fact, that I had been terribly foolish, stupid, arrogant, and disrespectful. I was (and still am) ashamed of myself for what could have been a tragedy of my design.

I returned to work after my week-long vacation a new man, strike that, just "a man". I set about repairing the damage I had done to the working relationship. It took some time, but we actually became friends after a while. A year or two afterward, our workload was rather light in the welding area, so I had been working in the machine shop for about six months. At quitting time one day, one of the welders caught me on the way out and told me that Certification Testing would be done the next day. I figured that I would run my welds and fail and life would go on. I came in the next day, and took all the tests for aluminum, steel, and stainless steel. Imagine my surprise when, about three weeks later, the test results came back. Out of more than twenty welders, I was the only one that had passed all of the tests! This meant that I was the only person who could work on some of the jobs in the shop. There were some who resented the fact that they were "outdone" by a young kid with a ponytail down his back, and I was even approached with wagers, "I'll bet you a hundred dollars you couldn't do it again". 'Turns out that the foreman was the next-highest "qualified" guy in the shop. So, we had the opportunity to work together a lot. At some point in time, he "stepped down" from the Foreman position and assumed the duties of the Assistant Foreman. I think there were some health issues that necessitated the move.

One day, I was called into the Director of Personell's office again. We chatted for a little while, and then he handed me a piece of paper. It was the "letter" from my file. "We don't need for this to be in your folder any more. I don't know if you remember, but when this letter went INTO your file, you told me that you would be the best welder in the Company. As far as I am concerned, you have succeeded in that goal." I might add that, in addition to "directing personell", he was actually the Head of Engineering and knew his way quite skillfully around all of the shops: sheet metal, machining, welding. "In fact, we are making you the Assistant Weld Shop Foreman." I threw myself into the position with gusto. Here I was, maybe 24 years old, with 27 welders under my command, many of whom had been welding longer than I had been breathing! My former nemesis had been working in our smaller weld shop, many times by himself, doing some of the smaller and more "precision" work. I would make it a point to pass through the small weld shop and see how things were going, and suggest job prioities to him. About five months after my promotion, I again raised my welding hood to see him staring at me. "How long have you been the Assistant Foreman?" I told him it had been about five months or so. "I sure wish the hell somebody had told ME". Somehow, he had never been officially notified of my promotion. I felt bad for him, but also took pride in the fact that I had never let the job "go to my head", so he had never felt threatened. We were friends from then on. I heard that he had passed away about four years or so after that. I had moved on to new jobs and new places. But I still never got to tell him the truth about his metal man.

In Memorium

2010-05-31T15:18:00.000-07:00

I spoke on the phone today with one of my oldest and dearest friends, also a Fighter Pilot's son. We reminisced about our Fathers and how they had managed to cheat Death in their youth, flying what were (then) the best and fastest airplanes in the U.S. Air Force. I told him of one of my last conversations with Dad, when I got to ask him, "How high did you fly? How fast have you flown? What was it like the first time you soloed in a fighter jet?" I never did (get to) ask him what it was like in War. He never spoke much about it to me. I don't know if he ever talked with Mom or not about it. I know that it must have taken a toll on him, even though, for the most part, it was probably a lot more "impersonal" from up in the air. I do remember that he spent part of a night under his cot because of an enemy mortar attack. He did tell us about that.
Today is Memorial Day. I know that most people relate this day to remembering those who have fallen, given their all, for their Country. But this day is also for remembering those who didn't necessarily die for our Freedoms, or the defense of those Freedoms, but for remembering all those who are dear to us. . .those that have passed on and, yes, those that are still with us. While talking to my friend, we of course talked about our fathers. I already said that. But I also thought of my daughter Hilarie, and the almost "tangible" bond she had with my Dad. I miss them both immensely.
When I got off the phone with my friend, the dogs needed to go out and potty. When I took the first one out (the "dawdler" of the two), I heard some jets flying nearby. I looked up and saw a flight of F-16's flying over, probably returning from a fly-over for a Memorial Day ceremony or parade. They were still in formation. The "Missing Man" formation. Just a gentle reminder, for me, that the sacrifices go on. Pray for those who serve, and for the families who have given of themselves for us.

The Cost of "Freedom"

2010-01-17T10:01:00.000-08:00

I remember when Hilarie, our older daughter, decided to move back home to "get a grip" on some of her finances etc., before eventually striking out on her own to try again. (I know that I had multiple "moves back home" when I was younger, before finally making it on my own.) We told Hilarie that she would always be welcomed at home, but since she was moving back "under our roof", she would again be subject to (most of) the same rules she had while growing up: We would not enforce a "curfew" for her, as she was now 23; we would, however, appreciate that she not play her music/tv too loud during the later hours when we were trying to sleep, we would like her to let us know if she was not going to be home until very late (if at all), and that she let us know that she was home when she arrived in the wee hours (just an "I'm home, Goodnight") so that we wouldn't worry unnecessarily. Etc., etc. However, in exchange for her "freedoms", we did expect that she carry her own weight financially, i.e.: pay us a reasonable rent every month. Not so large as to place a burden on her, but somewhere between $200 and $300 a month. This would still be cheaper than her previous rent, and we would absorb the utilities. Also, she would be responsible for her own entertainment (movies, video/computer games, fast food, etc.). This did not mean that she had to be entirely self-sufficient, she was still welcome to eat with us, etc. One thing that she was not told when she was moving back home was, that I planned to put half of her monthly "rent" in an account to remain untouched until such time as she was ready to "try it again on her own", at which time the funds would be available for deposits, "first and last", etc., depending upon how long she had been back home. Sadly, she passed away (at "home") before any of these could be implemented.

Now, our other daughter is wanting to move out and share a place with some close friends, a married couple and their two young children. This will be her first attempt at "leaving the nest". Her mother and I have concerns, just like we did with her sister (and I am sure that my mother had similar concerns for me) but are willing to let her try. As most of us know from experience, this is a "wake-up call" and a definite learning experience. Money that used to go for fast food and snacks and video games now goes for structured grocery shopping and menu planning. Money that used to go for clothes and cute shoes needs to go for rent, utilities, and transportation costs (either bus passes or gas money). Words like "lease", "contract", and "past due" take on a whole new meaning. In exchange for sacrifices, freedoms are attained. If, after a while, she needs to come back home to regroup, she will of course be welcomed home with open arms. And we will expect the same from her as we did for her older sister. Freedoms and Liberties will be available, but they will come with a price.

In this Country, we brag of our "Freedom" and "Liberty". Have we ever considered the cost of these? Our freedom to buy or rent a home is countered by the right of the bank or landlord to exact a payment from us. Our right to live on nothing but Whoppers and Big Macs is countered by not only prohibitive cost, but probable health risks as well. Our right to complain about government is guaranteed by that same government, but if one does not get involved (vote, pay taxes, etc.) in the administering of that government, then that person has no freedom to complain. The list of our Freedoms is almost endless. We enjoy more liberties and freedoms than any other nation on Earth. But at a cost. My father recognized this. He understood just how fortunate, and how obligated, we are. He was willing to support the continuation of these freedoms, even at the cost of his life, if necessary. He was willing, when asked, to go into harm's way to preserve these rights for the rest of us. And he wasn't the only one. Many, many men (and women) have gone to battle at the request of their Country. Most of them have come home to enjoy ongoing freedom with their families. Some have not. I would like to think that most, if not all, of them understood and accepted the possible sacrifice involved with preserving our rights.

So, to my daughter: Go forth and stretch your wings. Fall to the ground. Get up and dust yourself off and try again. Pay your bills. Don't pay your bills. Splurge on yourself. Be hungry. Be humbled. Find your strengths. Address your weaknesses. Enjoy your freedom, but be prepared for the cost. Come "home" if you need to. And when you finally succeed, you will see and know that it was worth all the trouble and hard times, and you will be stronger for it. We love you, Dad and Mom.

So now I'm a Mountain Man?

2009-11-15T19:09:00.000-08:00

Alas, I have been sorely remiss in my attention to the blog. Frankly, I had a long dry spell. I would think of things at work, and space them by the time I got home. . . Home. . . We have a new "home". We had grown tired of the apartment complex we were living in, and Janet got on the internet to "find us a new place to live". I wasn't totally against it, I just hated the physical processes involved in moving from one place to another. Maybe (although I have moved myself many, many times) it's because when I was growing up, the "moving men" came and packed us and moved us. All we had to do was stand there and watch, make sure that whatever we planned on taking with us in the car didn't get packed, and stay out of their way. Then we would hop in the car with our games and toys and snacks and drive to our new house. Simple. That's not the way it works when you don't have the cash for a moving company. More on that later.

Anyway, Janet kept finding "places for us to live" and she and Angie would maybe drive by and look at them. If they were a "possible", they would drag me to go look at it. Most were close to where we were, so a move would be a lot of short trips, or fewer if we could borrow/rent a truck or trailer. But, I didn't feel that it would be worth the effort involved just to move two miles away, I guess. So, she started looking for places in Salt Lake County, which would be closer to my work, but less desirable as a place to live. Then, she found a house for rent in an area that we had always (not so) secretly wanted to live. It was close to our favorite fishing lake, and in a small, mountain town. We drove out to look at it on a Saturday (we kinda wanted to get out for a drive anyway) and found it to be a "definite possible". As we were driving back into the Salt Lake Valley from the mountains, we could see a thick layer of "sludge" resting on the city. Right then, I decided that I had had enough of city living. We drove back out the next day, and looked at it again. Granted, it would mean almost an hour of commute time (one way), but the air was clean, there was a mountain for the back yard, and the population density dropped from 3300 people per square mile down to 40 people per square mile. There would actually be BREATHING room! We talked with the landlord, and he said that we were the only people that came back for a second look. I told him that I would get back to him within two days, and we headed back down the mountain to the smog and noise. But only temporarily. I borrowed some money against my 401k, and paid the first, last, and deposit, and we started moving. It took us a week and a half to get all our stuff moved, because I couldn't afford to rent a large truck. Although, we probably spent more than that would have cost just putting gas in the cars to make a couple of trips a day. I was able to scrape enough money together to rent a small truck to haul the large stuff that wouldn't fit in the cars (couch, washer and dryer, beds, etc.) But being able to "stretch out the spending" over two pay periods worked well. I would get off work, run to the apartment and load up the car, head up the mountain, unload, and some days make another trip before falling into bed exhausted, only to repeat it again the next day. Some people might consider us to be crazy, moving from the city (with a 20-minute commute) to a "summer home community" (with a 50-minute commute). I think we would have been crazy not to have made the move. The stress levels are much lower, the air is unbelievably clean, the skies are full of more stars than I ever remembered seeing before, there are deer, elk, moose, raccoons, skunks, foxes and probably more types of wildlife as well, and most importantly, it feels like HOME. It has been many years since I was somewhere that I felt totally at home. When I was growing up, we lived in a small town in Colorado. When Dad got transferred, he and Mom kept a bank account in Colorado, because, for a time, that was where they planned on ending up after Dad retired. Colorado was "home" for Dad. I now understand a little more. I don't know that we will stay in this rental house for a long time. But, I hope to be able to stay in this quiet, peaceful, beautiful area from now on. Of course, I do get some good-natured teasing from some of my co-workers about becoming a "mountain man". Growing my beard back for the winter has only added fuel to it. But that's okay. I'm home.

Small World

2009-08-31T20:24:00.000-07:00

(I know, it's a "repeat" picture, but stick around anyway).

I was searching the "Web" last week for additional pictures of "Dad's" plane, when I stumbled across some pictures of assorted Phantoms. Particularly, "Air National Guard" Phantoms. I found a picture of a Phantom that was flown by Daniel (Chappie) James, now on display at Tuskegee University in Alabama. (This is another man that I have tremendous respect for). I happened to notice the tail number and thought it looked familiar. The number was 64-0851. If you look at the picture of the two Phantoms next to the "tanker" in Hawaii, you will notice that the plane closest to the tanker is Dad's plane, 64-0806, and the other plane is Chappie James' plane, 64-0851. These planes flew together in Viet Nam, both were used to shoot down MIGs, and they flew together at their last (active) duty station, the Hawaii Air National Guard. Small world.

What Goes Around, Comes Around

2009-08-07T21:47:00.000-07:00

We recently got rid of one of our vehicles. The engine stopped while I was driving home. We got it towed to a tire store and swapped the tires on it with our other vehicle. Then it went to the junkyard. The other car seemed to "like" the better tires, but as a whole, we were never really happy with it. We bought it out of necessity, and it was all that I really qualified for at the time (my credit had some bad scars on it) that we felt like we wouldn't be ashamed to be seen in. It was a "newer" car (2007) but we think it had been in an accident sometime before we got it. It never felt right, or "safe". So, last week, we bit the bullet and got a new 2009 car, and a used 2007 SUV. (The SUV is "mine".) We have enjoyed both of them so far, and we not only feel safe in them, but aren't ashamed to be seen driving them, either. Now comes the tough part. Our 23 year- old daughter asks to borrow a car to drive to the store. We made sure that she was comfortable driving the car, and that she knew where all the switches and buttons were. But, then she wanted to drive "Dad's" car. Being really protective of both my daughter AND my car, I made sure she did okay driving it as well.
Tonight, she asked if she could go to a friend's house. By herself. In my car. All manner of "what-if's" went through my mind, as well as a multitude of excuses/reasons why I shouldn't let her. Then I admitted to myself that not only is she a good driver, she's a good kid, (and she knows that if she goes joyriding tonight, she won't get the car again for a long time), and I also remembered a similar time in my youth involving Dad's car: Dad had bought a brand new Volvo 1800E. This car was, as Dad put it, "a sports car driver's 'sports car'". It was, to many, well. . .ugly. But in a beautiful way. Leather seats, Blaupunkt FM stereo radio, air conditioning, four-speed, fuel injected engine, and plenty of exhilaration for the lucky driver. Dad was visiting for an hour or so, and my friend Randy was over at our house. I asked Dad if I could take Randy home in his car. To my surprise and delight, he consented. We took off in the car and I returned about 20 minutes later (actually, it was more like 45 minutes). Not too much of a problem, except for the fact that Randy only lived a half-block or so away. I could walk to his house in under three minutes. Dad was, understandably, a little perturbed with me upon my return. "I thought you were going to take Randy home and be right back", he said. I apologized, and offered the reasoning, "if you had the rare opportunity to drive a car like that under the same circumstances, you might have done the same thing." Maybe he reflected back upon HIS youth, but he mellowed out a little. It probably wouldn't have been quite as big of a deal, except for the fact he had needed to get on the road to be somewhere soon.
All of this went through my mind this evening when Angie asked to use my car. Maybe that's why I let her.

Happy Birthday, Dad

2009-07-11T21:03:00.000-07:00

Today, July 11th, would have been Dad's 80th birthday. We didn't do much in the way of commemorating, except for tentatively plan a weekend trip to Las Vegas (Nellis AFB). We plan to see some sights, lights, and the vehicle for Dad's flights. Yep, I want to go see"Dad's" plane. (Stay tuned for pictures.) 'Don't know exactly when, but probably this summer, sometime. I am, of course, excited about seeing the plane up close.

Jen, my youngest sister, emailed some pictures of Dad when he was much younger. They, or at least some of them, will probably make their way onto the pages of this blog.

Dad was always pretty quiet, and I'm not really sure how he felt about birthdays. I don't remember a lot of celebration when I was a kid, but I know we got him presents and a cake. Of course, he was also gone a lot during those years, and may not have been "home" for his birthday. But, he is "home" now, so "Happy Birthday, Dad!! We love you and miss you!"

"Dads' Day"

2009-06-27T21:12:00.000-07:00

Last weekend was Father's Day. My older son called to tell me Happy Father's Day, and I returned the wishes to him, as he is also a Father. My family and I went for a drive to celebrate the "holiday". We decided to get out of town and see the scenery. We ended up at our favorite fishing lake. Too bad we didn't have any fishing gear with us. The lake was beautiful. I couldn't help but think about Dad while we were out. I remember that during one of his visits many years ago, we went for a drive much like the one we took last weekend. We looked at the scenery, and let Dad reminisce about past trips and drives we had taken. It was really enjoyable for all of us. We had a camera with us, and took some good pictures. A few come to mind as extra special: Dad was standing out near a stand of trees and burst into song. Janet caught him with his arms outstretched and his mouth smiling in song. Another one was of Hilarie and him and the rest of the family. The love and admiration they had for each other was almost "visible" and tangible. We miss them both, but they are probably hanging out together and having fun. . .and they both probably had a laugh at our expense last weekend when I had to change a tire on the car while we were heading home from the lake. We hit a "hidden" pothole in the road that was deep enough to actually bend the rim on the front wheel. The tire was still holding air, but I didn't trust it. As I was putting the damaged wheel in the trunk, I saw that the inside of the wheel was also bent. I later found that we had also bent (to a lesser degree) the rear wheel, but it was repairable. I remember a trip we took when I was a boy. Somehow we got a flat tire on the station wagon. . .in a torrential downpour. . .out in the middle of nowhere. Dad dutifully got out and started changing the tire. I felt bad that he was out there in the rain, and I felt impressed that I should try to help him. Out into the rain I went, but I was of no help, actually. But, just getting out there in the rain with him made me feel closer to him, and I wanted him to know that I would help him if he needed me to. He told me to get back in the car, out of the rain. A State Trooper pulled up behind us about that time, and he put his lights on to alert oncoming drivers. The station wagon was a '64, and it did not have emergency flashers. Dad got the tire changed, and we proceeded on. Dad was soaked to the skin, and I was pretty wet too, from my thirty seconds or so in the rain with him. I think we must have stopped somewhere down the road so Dad could put on some dry clothes.

I also found some more pictures of "the plane" that show that it really did fly. They are shots from its last duty station, the Hawaii ANG (Air National Guard).

Jawbreakers and Hailstones

2009-05-31T13:24:00.000-07:00

Memory is a strange, inconsistent gift. Have you ever wondered why people can remember things that occurred years prior, but can’t tell you what they had for dinner last night? There are probably “documented” theories as to the reasons why, but I have my own theory, and it is probably as “correct” as the others. I will just call it the “jawbreaker” or “hailstone” theory. Both start out as a small particle or piece, and grow as additional layers are added. If a crack develops occasionally, the addition of a “layer” may fill the void and, in the process, “overlap” or intersect earlier layers. So it is with our memory. Our earliest memories are at the center of the “jawbreaker”, and subsequent memories are added as layers. Some memories, through the “filling of cracks” may go deeper toward the core. And, like the hailstone melting or the jawbreaker dissolving, our memories deteriorate from the outside. Generally, the last layer “applied” is the first to dissolve, with the exception of the “fissures”, or cracks, which capture part of that layer in a deeper area.
I can remember the names of some of my parents’ friends from the late 1950’s, but can’t tell you my next-door neighbors’ last name.
My earliest recollection is that of my grandfather building me a sandbox, and him pouring the sand into the box around me. I remember sitting in the wooden enclosure, and seeing a truck or station wagon backing up to the sandbox. I remember seeing the bags of sand unloaded and being dumped into the box. I was eighteen months old.
When Mom, Kathy, and I went to Tallahassee to see Dad in 2002, he didn’t recognize me at first. Then, he was able to hit a deeper “layer” and make the connection. He and Mom sat at the table and talked. Mostly about the past, people that they had known, etc. because that’s where his strongest memories were.
I had a great-granduncle that lived 106 years. He was born in 1874 and died in 1980. He was a remarkable, ordinary man. He lived by himself and mowed his yard and the ones of his neighbors. He let his driver's license lapse because he must have thought that he wouldn't live long enough to use it. I think he was in his 90's then. He finally checked himself into a "nursing" home, because there probably weren't too many people his age that weren't in care facilities. He would occasionally check himself out and fly to California to visit his daughter, and then return to his care center. My sister Sandy visited him with my grandmother shortly before he passed away. He apparently wasn't real attentive at the time. As they were leaving, my grandmother reassured her that he would be thinking about the visit, and would "put the pieces in order". On her subsequent visit, he had remembered whose daughter she was, and how she fit into his life. He had dug through the layers on the jawbreaker until he found what he was trying to remember. So memories aren't necessarily lost, just buried. However, if we continue to "access" these memories, they will stay near the surface. How can we do this? By talking, "blogging", documenting for posterity. At my "young" age of 54, I am amazed at what I remember, and also frustrated by what I can't. That's why I sometimes go for a month or more between "postings". I have to dig through the layers until a memory surfaces. A lot of times there are "fissures" that connect to additional ones as well. But, stay tuned and be patient. . .there are a lot more still buried in there.

Whatever Happened to Swing the Statue?

2009-04-20T20:33:00.000-07:00

We moved into an apartment complex a few months ago, and as a result, there are children of all ages and ethnicity everywhere. And, like we did when we were kids, they play all sorts of games. We played Freeze-tag, Swing the Statue, war, hide-and-seek, cowboys-and indians, secret agent, and matchbox cars. We played with wooden gliders, and built models of cars and planes and Rat-Fink. We played Batman, Green Hornet (we all wanted to be Kato), and Wild Wild West. We played Red Rover, Duck-Duck-Goose, Dodgeball, baseball and occasionally football, if we could get enough guys together. Yes, we even occasionally played "house" with the girls, but we were usually secret agents as well. You could buy toy guns that really shot plastic bullets. My crowning achievement was that one Christmas I (and some of the other boys) got a Johnny Seven O.M.A (One Man Army). It was a monstrous plastic "gun" that had no less than seven different weapons in it. We had some hellatious games of "war" that year. I wish I still had it, it would be worth some money nowadays. My brother got a G.I.Joe one year. I think Dad was a little perturbed that he and I might be playing with "dolls", although he was a valuable resource for information about the various accessories: guns, jeeps, uniforms, etc. Anyway, enough about that.
I took our dogs out to "potty" the other day, and saw some kids playing nearby. They had a blanket-tent/fort set up, and I figured they were playing house or something. I saw a boy walk up to the tent and expected something to the effect of "Hi honey, I'm home". Imagine my surprise when they started talking: "Okay, you can be the landlord, and we are gonna hide so you can't throw us out." WHAT!!!? What the hell kind of surroundings are these kids growing up in? Maybe it's just me, but I think that any kid under the age of ten shouldn't even KNOW about "evil landlords" and "eviction". Even if there is a situation like that in their home, the kids don't need to know all the particulars. All they need to know is that they may be moving soon. It's not their fault, and they shouldn't have to share that burden. Let them stay young and innocent just a little longer. Let them PLAY. My granddaughter is seven, and her favorite game is "waitress". She can spend hours (literally) taking our orders for lunch, dinner, breakfast. She walks up with a small pad of paper and tells us what the specials are, and writes down what we "order". And, yes, it can get "old", but I figure that (1) she is having fun, and (2) she is actually practicing her reading and writing skills without realizing it. Let them PLAY.

Pinewood Derby

2009-03-28T10:42:00.000-07:00

As an industrial designer and blueprint checker, part of my duties include knowing and calculating sectional densities of the materials used in fabrication i.e: weights of structural members (angle, channel, "I"-beam etc.) based upon their type (steel, stainless steel, aluminum), as well as checking lengths and sizes to insure that the assemblies will be strong enough for the tasks performed. There are programs that will calculate the stress and load, and my employer uses some good ones. One thing that is important is to make sure that we don't try to put "ten pounds of crap into a five-pound bag". In other words, if one part won't fit into another, it ain't gonna work. While at work recently, I was reflecting on how, again, Dad amazed me when I was young.
Bryan, my younger brother, was in Cub Scouts, and the famous "Pinewood Derby" was at hand: a father-son project aimed at bringing fathers and sons together to accomplish a goal. The project kit (available through your local scouting equipment seller) included a block of "pine wood", some plastic wheels, some nails and a few rules regarding minimum and maximum weight of the finished product (a race car). The Derby Project showcases Design (imagination, or "thinking outside the box"), Whittling skills (knife and tool safety), Patience (do it right the first time) and Diligence (finish what you start). Sadly (for some), it also showcases the amount of involvement of the parent/adult who "guides" and helps the boy. (More on this later).
Dad and Bryan developed a sketch for the car's profile and transfered it to the side of the wooden "block". They then cut away the excess material. They also had to decide upon a cross-section for the car, (how "fat or thin" the body would be) and start rounding the corners. From the side, the car looked similar to an airplane (go figure) with a "tail" that stuck up. From the front, it resembled a rounded brick. As the older brother and full-fledged Boy Scout, I suggested that the car have twin tailfins. That was my sole contribution to the project. The concept was adopted and implemented into the design. They cut and sanded a "groove" down the center of the tail, effectively giving the car a much more streamlined appearance (like a modern-day FA-18). Dad initially expressed concern about the removal of too much wood, because every splinter that was removed "lightened" the car by a milligram or two. But he had a solution for that, too. After the paint color had been decided upon, the nearly-completed car made yet another trip to the postal scales to see how far under the max gross weight it was. After ascertaining that amount, Dad figured out how many fishing weights (split shot sinkers) could be added to the car's body to bring it up to the desired weight. Now, here's the tricky part. In order to add weight to the car, a cavity had to be created for the weight to be placed in. If I were doing it now, I would drill a hole in the car, and put a plastic plug in the hole. I would then weigh the car, remove the plug, drop in the requisite number of weights and reinstall the plug. Easy solution, but potentially ineffective: shifting of the weights in the tubular cavity could move the center of gravity. So, the weights might have to be embedded in wax or glue. How much to use? Gotta figure in the weight of that, now. A solvable problem, and I am sure more than "team" used that method in one form or another. Dad's solution? Make a cavity, melt the lead sinkers, and pour the molten lead into the cavity. This way, the weight won't shift or rattle. What amazes me, now that I view this from an industrial designer's viewpoint, is that Dad had to figure out: the precise location of the car's center of gravity, the mass (weight) of the wood that had to be removed, the volume (area) of the wood removed, use these figures to modify the mass of the "ballast" required, the volume/sectional density of the lead. Additionally, Dad wanted to just "top off" the cavity, so that there wasn't a "hole" or "pile" showing on the car. End result? The molten lead came just to the surface of the cavity, the car was right at the target weight. The car was then painted, decals applied, and we waited for race day.
Race day arrived, finally, and we assembled at the Pack Meeting. All the cars were set out for pre-race display. This was where I felt embarrassed for another person for the first time. There were some awesome looking cars on display, testament to the involvement and dedication of the boys' fathers. And there were some "clunky-looking" cars as well: some 'cars' resembled painted bricks with rounded edges, and one poor kid had to display an unpainted, unmodified block of wood with wheels. The glue was probably still wet on the axles. I don't know who that car's owner was, but I felt bad for him. Granted, his father could have been overseas (this was, after all, an Air Force Base Cub Scout Pack), but couldn't SOMEONE have helped this kid with his project?
Anyway, our car did okay in the races. It wasn't "the winner", but then, "everybody there was a winner". They learned and experienced teamwork, and (most kids, anyway) spent "quality time" with their Dad. I am glad that my little brother got to do that a couple of times while he was in Cub Scouts. (And I am sure he has enjoyed the togetherness he has shared with his sons as he helped them with THEIR Pinewood Derby cars.) For my brother's humorous outlook on his first Pinewood Derby, go to http://www.imperfectparent.com/articles/not-your-fathers-pinewood-derby/675_1/. As for me, I am continually amazed and humbled by just how incredible Dad was at everything he did.

The Phantom Lives On

2009-02-23T20:23:00.000-08:00

As I said earlier, Dad has been gone for six years now. My "baby sister" went to visit his grave on the anniversary. She left some flowers, and took some pictures.

About a year after Dad passed away, I ended up getting laid off from my job. I found another job rather quickly, but decided that before I started working, I would use some of my fairly generous severance package and take my family to Florida for a vacation. While there, we of course went to Disney World, and also took a trip around the state to visit my mother, my stepmother, and my sisters. While driving through northern Florida, I stopped to visit Dad's grave. The Phantom resting on his headstone was there then, too. Yes, it is getting beat up. It probably blows off the stone during storms, and someone always puts it back. That little plane has been there for at least five years, that I know of. And, it will probably be there for many years to come. I'm sure it will be there for my next visit, which won't be for a few years, probably. My (40-year!?) class reunion will be in 2012, and I don't know that I will be getting to Florida before that. But, just like Dad, no matter how worn or tired that little plane gets to looking, it will serve proudly until it can no more.

Hudson Landing

2009-02-16T18:51:00.000-08:00

Recently, an airliner belly-landed in the Hudson River. By now, the whole world has probably heard about it. No fatalities occurred. Listening to the audio tapes of the final transmissions prior to "splashdown" will show that the pilot was cool, calm, and collected. The pilot in command was a fighter pilot in the F-4 for most of the 70's. I wondered for a brief while if he had been under my father's tutelage while learning to fly the Phantom. Although it would have been cool, I don't think that they ever met. Captain Sullenberger, according to information on the internet, flew Phantoms from 1973-1980. Dad was at the Pentagon prior to that, and retired from the Air Force at the end of 1973.
The flight crew of the airliner became instant celebrities: a guest appearance at the Super Bowl, appearances on late-night talk shows, and news magazines (printed and televised). I don't (in any way, shape, manner, fashion, or form,) mean to sound like I am saying "ho-hum, they landed in the water"; what the guy did was still incredible. I never met the guy, and I am still proud of him. He was doing his job, like he was trained to do it. And, without a doubt, his fighter experience/discipline was a factor in his calm, successful dealing with a problem. It could have been disastrous, but, because of his training and experience, it had a happy ending. Dad (and a host of other great pilots) would have handled it the same way. And, though I can't speak for Captain Sullenberger, I know that Dad would have been more than a little embarrassed at all the attention given him, no matter how great a job he did. He would have been grateful for the opportunity to serve. I applaud and salute you, "Sully". Your passengers and their families (and the world) do, too. You are, indeed, a fighter pilot.

Addendum

2009-02-14T19:56:00.000-08:00

It seems that no matter where I go, what I do, or who I am around, I think about my Dad. Actually, I am reminded of my Dad. If I am around a bunch of rowdy foul-mouthed people, I reflect on how different they are from Dad. If they are well mannered, articulate, disciplined, I think that they may have been raised like Dad was. The word "discipline" is an interesting word. I see the root word "disciple" in it. As we are probably all aware, a "disciple" is a follower or adherent to a doctrine or way of life. I consider manners to be a strong doctrine in and of itself. So are patriotism, dependability, fidelity, selflessness and generosity to name a few more. I know that I "railed" about the person from Washington abusing (in my opinion) the right to freedom of expression. I read something today: (paraphrased) "If we can't tolerate the freedom of expression from someone whose causes we abhor, then we have no freedom of expression". So, I guess that person had the right to feel that way, but I thought it was a low-class way of expressing it. Other than that, I stand by my earlier post!
To continue, Dad was disciplined. He adhered to the doctrines and teachings from his youth, and abided by them his entire life. And, like his parents, he tried to teach the same values to his children as he had been taught. Some of those lessons were learned "at his knee", some learned "on his knee", and a few were taught "across his knee".

I'm Wearing my (Soap Box) Derby

2009-02-09T18:49:00.000-08:00

As I was driving home from work today, I happened to get behind a Subaru from Washington (state) that had a message written across the back window that read, "If you will kiss my ASS OBAMA, I will be a good Christian and turn the other cheek." What a jerk. Is he/she upset because Obama won the election, because he is African-American, or just exhibiting the right to freedom of expression? I'm sorry, but when your "freedom of expression" may necessitate my explaining something to my kids or grandkids that I may not be ready to discuss at this point in their lives, you are crossing the line, in my opinion. (Luckily I didn't have any kids with me at the time. But why should I have to even think about it?) Why don't you JOIN the Country in supporting the guy who has the job of trying to fix the mess we have collectively gotten ourselves into instead of bitching and whining. I have already said that no, I did not vote for President Obama. But dammit, he IS my President and I will support him and pray for him. (I think) my parents were Republicans when I was growing up. I only say this because I remember in the 1964 election, I was "rooting" for the Democratic incumbent. I remember Mom indicating that she and Dad had tendencies toward the Republican candidate, Barry Goldwater. I also remember, in late 1963, when (Democrat) President Kennedy was shot. The news broadcasts did not yet know whether he had been killed or not, only that he had been shot. When Walter Cronkite announced that President Kennedy was dead, my mother, who was weeping, cried out, "They've got to be wrong!" and wept harder. I was in 4th grade at the time, and was home from school because I was sick. I remember the day well. Neither my mother or father EVER thought about belittling the man or his office. No, they probably didn't help vote JFK into office. But they damned sure supported him in his office, and didn't whine or publicly insult him by putting a lame-ass message across the back window of their cars. It just makes me sick and embarrassed that people abuse not only their right to express themselves, but offend everyone else who happens to be on the same road, or in the same room. I am not against diversity, it is one of the key factors in our electoral process. In the Pledge of Allegiance (remember it?) we not only swear our alliance to the flag, but also to the "Republic" that it represents. A "republic" is a system of government that is run by the people through elected officials. Part of the rules are that: if your guy doesn't win, the worst you can say about him(her) is that he/she came in second. Number two in a nation full of people isn't bad. Don't be a bad sport, support the winner. You still have a "say" in the running of the country. Quit bitching, wipe your nose, and help the rest of us fix the problems! I know it is cliche', but Love it or Leave it.
Dad did not join the military because of President Eisenhower or any other politician. He joined because, first and foremost, he loved this country and was willing to die, if necessary, to preserve the fundamental rights and freedoms for the rest of us. Even those bozos who abuse them.

Where does the time go?

2009-02-06T20:36:00.000-08:00

This month will mark the sixth anniversary of Dad's passing. It sometimes seems that he has been gone much longer than just six short years. I guess it's because he was so much a part of my life. His influence has been a pattern (off-and-on) for the shaping of my life or, rather, the path(s) that my life has taken over the last 50 years or so. Even if I hadn't heard from him for a while, he was always there. So maybe, because he is thought about or spoken of every day, it seems longer. At the same time, it seems like just yesterday, or just last week, that we all assembled together for his funeral. Again, probably because he is in our thoughts daily, the memories of him are still "fresh" in our minds.
That is one of the reasons that I started this literary tribute to him: to keep (my) memories alive as well as share them with family and friends. I may tend to "ramble" in some of my posts, but I try to include something relating to Dad in each one of them because he really was (is) a guiding influence for me. I wouldn't be the man that I am, if not for the man that he was. (We miss you, Dad)

New "Flight Leader"

2009-01-20T19:36:00.001-08:00

Today, I watched the inauguration of President Obama. He has, of course, been the topic of many discussions, conversations, and debates as of late. I know that my father, while he was alive, had high hopes and support for Senator McCain. A lot of things have changed in the years since he passed away. But one thing would not have changed. Dad would support the President, no matter who he/she was, with all his might, mind, and spirit. The fact that Obama is an "African-American" would never enter the equation. I was talking to my wife, and related (again) the story about Mom and Dad looking for base housing at Davis-Monthann AFB: While looking at the housing map, a woman pointed to one address and said that they would not "want that house", because the neighbors were Negroes. Dad immediately said, "We'll take it".

This country has undergone a lot of change in the last 40 or so years. I remember, even as late as the 70's, seeing signs in the rural South that said "colored entrance", and "whites only". I hope that they were just "left overs" from an earlier era, and had no real significance. But I also remember, while growing up (and not only in the South), hearing racial slurs and epithets. I was lucky. I was never taught bigotry or prejudice. Through the years, some of my best friends and co-workers have been something other than "white". Mexican, Indian, Vietnamese, Chinese, African-American, Japanese, you name it. Every "color of the rainbow". I am grateful to my parents for raising me to look at the person, not the "box they are wrapped in".

I didn't vote for Obama, but I support and respect him and the Office that he holds, and he will be in my prayers. I believe that he is a man of integrity, a gentleman, a Fighter Pilot.

Sure could use those air miles

2009-01-19T19:01:00.000-08:00

My sincere thanks and appreciation to Guenter Grondstein for allowing me to use his beautiful photographs.

As anyone in my family will tell you, I have become "obsessed" with finding out about the planes that Dad flew. The one that I have been able to find out about continues to thrill me. I discovered recently that one of the model kit manufacturers made a model of the F4 that has the tail number that Dad flew in Viet Nam. Now I need to find one or more of the kits. Evidently, judging from the stars on the left intake, this plane has had some interesting encounters besides the one where Dad and the newby picked up a round from ground fire. I couldn't even hazard a guess as to how many miles this plane logged before finally coming to rest, her last assignment: that of guarding the gate at Nellis AFB in Nevada. Before that, she served in the Hawaii Air National Guard. If I could have the "sky miles" she has earned, I could probably fly to the moon. And Dad logged a good portion of those miles. Cool.

Awesome

2008-11-30T10:44:00.000-08:00

I think every kid goes through it. That point when their daddy becomes awesome in their eyes. Before that time, dads are just there, being taken for granted. Then something happens that amazes, astounds, or otherwise impresses the child. For me, it was when Dad took me fishing for the first time. I was about seven years old at the time. We were living in Colorado, Uncle John lived less than an hour away, and Grandma Fields lived across the fence from us. Dad and Uncle John had planned a fishing outing for our families. We all piled into our respective cars and headed into the mountains. I remember seeing my cousins rigging their lines and heading into the woods in search of the perfect fishing spot. I was kind of jealous, and also impressed. Maybe someday I would be able to have that level of skill and independence. Anyway, Dad and I headed up the stream for a ways, then crossed a very muddy meadow, and came up by a small pond. There were (to me) tall bushes all around the pond, so that my only view of it was through openings in the brush. Dad could see over them. He told me that he could see some fish in the pond. Instructing me to be very quiet, he showed me how to put a worm on a hook. Then he cast it out for me, and handed me the rod. Luckily, it was a fly rod so it was long enough to keep the line out of the bushes. Dad watched as several fish (invisible to me behind the brush) investigated the worm, and gave me play-by-play narration. Then he instructed me to jerk the rod and I was connected to a fish! It probably only took a few seconds for me to reel it in, but it felt like a long time. Soon, a small fish lay at our feet. It couldn't have been much over six inches in length, but it was my first fish. Dad pulled out his sheath knife and showed me how to clean the fish. (The knife was longer than my fish was.) He put the fish into his creel, and we made our way back to join the others. My cousins had caught some fish, too. There were more of them, and they were bigger than mine, but I didn't seem to mind. Daddy had taught me how to fish! I thought he was awesome, because he could tell what the fish were going to do, and how to make them eat my worm. We ate a picnic lunch, and then had to go home. We used to go to my grandmother's cabin for Sunday dinner. It must have been a Sunday when I caught that fish, because I remember that Grandma cooked my fish for me. It didn't take up a lot of room on the plate, I remember. There were, of course, other happenings in my life that reminded me of just how awesome Dad was. Watching him control an airplane when he took me flying, building the famous "box", even driving across the country and finding our destination with no apparent difficulty. All of these (and more) made lasting impressions on me. I think what impressed me most about Dad was that he never "failed". He might have some "bumps in the road occasionally", but he never let them keep him from his objective. He never gave up. And because of that, my Dad was awesome.

Once, Always

2008-11-29T13:59:00.000-08:00

"A friend is someone who knows everything about you. . .and still likes you."
Over the years, my father made many friends and acquaintances. Probably more than he knew. His influence touched many lives besides just my own. I have met people all over the country that have crossed paths with my father. Without exception, they have had nothing but praise, respect, and admiration for him. Some knew him from the military. Most of them met him after he got out of the Air Force. Through business dealings and his Church responsibilities, all who met him knew that he was a man of his word.
I can remember in Japan, when I was about 4 years old, that a couple of Dad's friends used to stop by occasionally. One of them was a Lt. Blackwell. I think they used to call him "Blackie". I remember liking it when he would come over. I guess Dad kept in touch with him off and on through the years. He was evidently stationed in Viet Nam at the same time Dad was. What happened to him after that, I don't know. Also, while we were in Japan, the family that lived next to us had a daughter my age. We again ran into them in Florida, in 1969. I briefly tried to "rekindle" the "romance" that their daughter and I had shared when we were 4, but we had changed over the ten years we had been apart. But Dad and Major Bedsworth were still friends. We went water skiing with them, and they taught me to slalom ski. What does this have to do with anything? It has taught me the value of making and keeping friends.
Throughout my life I, too, have met countless people as a result of different jobs, schools, neighborhoods, and locales. Even though they number in (possibly) the thousands, there are comparatively few that I consider to be "true" friends. People that I try to stay in touch with, despite the miles that may separate us. People that share a bond with me. People that are like "family". People that will open their door to me no matter where or when we may chance to encounter one another. I have written about one of these people already, my friend Randy. I have known him for 40 years, and we still manage to communicate with each other at least twice a month through emails or phone calls. He has seen me through some of my greatest triumphs, as well as deepest despair, and remains to this day one of the people that I can call upon if needed.
Another man that I can call upon: my good friend John. We were in the junior-high band together. We were both trumpet players at the time. He was a year behind me in school, and by the time he got to high school, had decided to not be in the band. We saw each other in the halls occasionally, but never really connected until we found out that we were "dating" girls that lived across the street from each other. The four of us would occasionally do things together, but it was when the "girls" (who were best friends) would do things together (they both kept horses at the same stable), that John and I would end up hanging out together. Our friendship grew, and continued to grow after both girls had moved on, and we had chosen different career paths. After I moved into my first "place", John was a frequent visitor and guest. One time, he brought a guy that he worked with to our apartment. His name was Bill, and he was a black belt, among other things. I remember that they were "adding on" to the complex where we were living, and that there were always construction materials in the area. One night, they brought some cinder blocks up to the apartment, and Bill was breaking them with his fist. I was suitably impressed. John "moved" up to Alabama to attend college, but managed to visit pretty regularly. Randy was at college, and Bill and I spent a lot of time hanging out together. Soon, I was learning karate from Bill. He was an excellent teacher, and I was, honestly, a great student. I progressed rapidly, until he and I were teaching a class together, as well as being roommates. When his car burned up on the way to class one day, he was left without transportation and a lot of personal belongings. He enlisted in the Marines shortly thereafter. I tried to stay proficient in the martial arts during his absence. He stopped by when he would have leave, and we would catch up. Many times, John or Randy would be there as well. If you could get any two of us together for a while, there wasn't a beer bottle that was safe. If all four of us happened to be together, it was a party that usually stretched until dawn. My friendships did not end with their marriages, I simply gained another close personal friend. Their wives have all been like sisters, probably even closer. I have loved these men and their wives like family, and they have all returned my love in kind. The "shortest" of these friendships has spanned 35 years. I have met many people since, and few have cemented a bond like these three.
Roughly six years ago, I had the opportunity to speak at church. I happened to be relating a story about my father. After the services a couple came up to me and asked if I was any relation to Sam Fields, from Florida. I replied that yes, he was my father. They had known him in Florida and spoke of their love and admiration for him. My father made lasting friendships with all those that he touched. Well, maybe not "friendships", but certainly a lasting impression. A positive impression.
I am now "middle-aged", and have no idea if any of my father's squadron-mates are still around, but if they are, I know that they remember my father. When I spoke at Dad's funeral, I said something to the effect that he had been "one of the finest men to ever walk the face of the earth". After the service, more than one person came up to me to affirm that statement. Do I have as many friends? I doubt it, but there are at least three people who will remember who I am. True friends.

They Really Do

2008-11-18T20:25:00.000-08:00

Do you ever read bumper stickers? Of course you do, everyone does. You can find a bumper sticker about literally every subject, pastime, destination, passion, or occupation imaginable.
Over the years, I have seen thousands of bumper stickers. Dad didn't care for them. He didn't want to "trash up" his car. I remember when I was younger, we went to a "tourist attraction", a cave in Missouri, I believe. As we were standing in line for our tickets, Dad spied a young man heading out into the parking lot with a handful of bumper stickers to put on all the cars. (Can you imagine, a FREE bumper sticker?) Anyway, after we got to the front of the line, Dad specifically requested that NO bumper sticker should be put on the station wagon parked "over there". We toured the cave, and prepared to leave. As we were piling into the car, Dad spotted the bumper sticker. Diving into the glove compartment, he came out with a razor blade scraper, and proceeded to remove the offending decoration right there in the parking lot. It wasn't an "offensive" sticker, there was nothing obscene on it. Not at all like the stickers one sees on the road nowadays. The only bumper sticker that Dad ever allowed on the car was one that read: "Don't Let Them Be Forgotten", and underneath in big letters: "POW-MIA" (Prisoners Of War, Missing In Action). There was a family in our neighborhood in Florida,whose father/husband was Missing In Action. A man who used to live down the street from us in Tucson, turned up Missing In Action in the 60's. He was shot down while on a combat mission. According to his wingman, there were flames coming from the aircraft, and it spun in. No parachutes were spotted. Dad was the wingman. He didn't have to "drill it into our heads", that this (Viet Nam) war was not only important, but dangerous as well. I'm sure that's why we had the POW-MIA bumper sticker on the car.
Like I said, there are bumper stickers for any occasion: "Love a Welder and Watch the Sparks Fly!" "Divers do it Deeper" There are any number of stickers that promote "IT" being performed by any number of trades and occupations. What you interpret "IT" as is limited only by your imagination. Usually, there is an obscene connotation.
I remember the first bumper sticker I heard about that talked about "IT". Dad came home one day and was almost "bubbling" about a sticker he had seen. It said, simply: "FIGHTER PILOTS DO IT BETTER". Nothing obscene or ribald. Pick a task. . .it will be done better by a Fighter Pilot, no matter what IT is. It has been proven to me time after time, by some of the greatest men ever to walk the earth, or fly above it.
I have a cousin who worshipped the ground my Dad walked on. When he was young, his teacher asked the class what they wanted to be when they grew up. "Doctor, Spaceman, Nurse, Princess, President" were probably some of the answers his classmates gave. When it was his turn, he answered, "I want to be Uncle Sam". I guess his classmates laughed at him. No, he didn't want to have his face on a poster, pointing, and saying I WANT YOU. He wanted to be like my Dad, his uncle, Sam.
Now, I must clarify something. Just because a man (or woman) straps on a jet and heads for the wild blue unknown, that person is not necessarily a Fighter Pilot. Different people have their own "standard" that they judge people by. There are many honorable men out there. There are many patriotic men out there. There are also many brave, faithful, honest and/or reverent men out there. Most men have at least one of these qualities. Some men possess two or more of these traits. The man who lives behind me embodies ALL of these traits, and more. He is a retired plumber. He is a friend to all, is loved and respected by all who know him, and he hasn't flown (to my knowledge) except on an airliner as a passenger. But this great man, to me, is a Fighter Pilot. That is "my standard" that I evaluate people against. There can be no higher praise from me than, "Officer and a Gentleman" or, "Fighter Pilot". Fighter Pilots Do It Better. They really do.

Not All Dreams Come True

2008-11-16T15:33:00.000-08:00

"Oh, I have slipped the surly bonds of earth,

and danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;

Sunward I've climbed and joined the trembling mirth of

sun-split clouds-and done 100 things you have not dreamed of-

wheeled and soared and swung high in the sunlit silence.

Hov'ring there,

I've chased the shouting wind along and flung

My eager craft through footless halls of air.

Up, up the long delirious, burning blue

I've topped the wind-swept hills with easy grace,

Where never lark, or even eagle flew;

And, while with silent, lifting mind, I trod

The high untrespassed sanctity of space,

Put out my hand, and touched the face of God!"

-John Gillespie Maggee, age 19

Royal Canadian Air Force

Throughout my entire life, I have always loved flying. In a commercial airliner, a private plane, a hang glider, it didn't matter. As long as there was "air" between me and the ground, I could be happy. Some of my fondest memories are flying with Dad. I used to dream about him being able to take me up in a fighter. Those dreams have continued throughout my life, even after he passed away in early 2003. To be able to "watch him work" would have been great. The closest that I got to that was when he was assigned the task of, well,. . . I'm not sure was he was doing. But it involved taking an Air Force car out and parking between two runways. Dad was able to communicate with the pilots that were taking off or landing. Seeing fighters race by us on either side, hearing that tremendous roar on takeoff, listening to Dad "talk to the planes" was, in a word, "awesome". (And Dad had been worried that I might get bored!) All too soon, it was time to go home.

After Dad retired, he managed to stay in the air. I think he was living in Ohio at the time, but he and Judy and Jenny flew down for a visit. When the time came for them to return home, he offered to make a "detour" and fly me to Mississippi where I was going to visit a friend. That flight was way too short. One hour and forty minutes from Ft. Walton Beach Florida to Hattiesburg Mississippi. It would have taken me most of a day to drive it.

I had wanted to be a fighter pilot when I grew up. My eyesight hampered that dream, although I could have flown transports, or maybe even heavy bombers, with eyeglasses. But, to me, that was more like "driving a bus". I wanted to "drive the sports cars". I have alternately regretted and justified that decision made so many years ago. I could have transitioned into commercial flying after getting out, either with a freight company or an airline. (I'd probably have made more money). And I would have been flying.

When Dad got "his wings clipped", I know that it must have been really hard on him. Having spent a large portion of his life in the air, going high enough to see the curvature of the Earth, going so fast that he could be there and gone before someone even heard him coming, facing Death countless times and coming out on top, "touching the face of God",only to be grounded. It must have been tough. I promised myself that "when I could afford it" I would get my pilot's license and take Dad up and hand off the controls to him. He deserved it. And, I know that I couldn't have given him a "gift" that would have touched him more. Dad, like I have said before, was born to fly.

When Dad passed away, I realized that I would never be able to fulfill my dream of giving him the controls and let him "do his thing" one more time. Nonetheless, I still planned on getting my "ticket" and flying. But there would be no "handing over the reins", now. I would have to be satisfied in the knowledge that Dad would always be my "co-pilot". But, the problem of actually getting my wings still was out of my financial reach. I could have taken out a loan, but by this time my credit was just above lousy, and I couldn't have guaranteed that I would be able to pay it back.

When a company I had been working for had to "close its doors" in late 2004, I searched for a job. . .again. I stumbled across an ad for a draftsman on the internet one night. I had been a welder for most of my life, and had extensive experience in a machine shop, sheet metal shop, and I was able to pursue my "hobby" of drafting and 3d modeling. I had worked as a draftsman before, so I went in to apply. The company happened to build aircraft kits. I asked what drafting program they used to generate their drawings. It happened to be a different program than the one I had used previously. I filled out an application anyway, and left a resume. About a week later, my phone rang. It was the woman from HR. "We really need someone who can 'hit the ground running' with our program", she said. I thought to myself, "what the heck, I tried". "But," she continued, "we do need a full-time welder." That is how I got into the aircraft industry. I had, for many years, been a really good welder. I had enjoyed the opportunities of working with some of the best, and I had learned well. Now was my opportunity to really shine. I received many compliments and accolades for the quality of my work. After all, I was building the landing gear and various other "flight safety" items for their kit plane. I saw my opportunity to again take to the air. All I needed to do was beg a ride in one, and buy a kit to build my own. This was almost a consuming passion. I wanted to fly. And this was my ticket.

I enjoyed working for this company so much that I rarely took a day off. Before I knew it, I had three weeks vacation accrued, which was the maximum one could accumulate. So, I scheduled myself to take a week off. I had been feeling "kinda tired" as of late, and figured that maybe I ought to take it easy for a week, not think about work, just relax. I took my week off, and tried to rest, but no matter how long I "slept in", I just felt drained, and I got winded very easily. The day before I was to return to work, my wife suggested that I should see a doctor to see if anything was wrong. Getting tired for no reason was certainly out of character for me. So, we went to the local "doc-in-a-box" clinic. During my checkup, they found that my blood pressure was 70/40, and my pulse rate was 185 beats per minute. They gave me some pills to take, and told me that I should see a cardiologist before I returned to work.

Early the next morning, I called my supervisor to tell him that I would probably be in around noon, and explained that I had been instructed to see a physician before going back to work. I was hoping for an early appointment, but could not be seen until later that afternoon. So I called my boss back and told him I would probably take the whole day off, and I would see him tomorrow. I went to see the cardiologist later that day. That was the last time I saw "daylight" for quite a while. They called the hospital across the street and reserved a room for me. My BP was still really low, and my pulse fluctated from a "low" of 180 to a peak of 192 beats per minute. I figured I would be there overnight for observation, and then released to go back to work. Ten or so days later, I emerged from the hospital, the proud owner of an ICD (implantible cardiovert defibrillator) and a hospital bill of well over $100,000. Oh yes, and one other thing: I could no longer weld for a living. Since my implant also functions as a pacemaker, the magnetic field produced by welding could alter the regulatory output and make my heart go nuts, or could cause the defibrillator to either "fire" unnecessarily, or suppress the "firing" if it were needed. Luckily, I had enough manufacturing experience, and I had been learning and using the drafting/modeling program they used, so that I was still "valuable" to them. In fact, shortly before I took my (3) weeks' vacation, I had gotten a new title: Manufacturing Technician. The duties were: if it needs to be done, you see it through. Example: take a "napkin sketch", model it on the computer, make drawings/blueprints, make the part, test the part, report results. Only now, I had to get someone else to do the welding for me.

About a week after I returned to work, I finally got the opportunity to fly in one of our aircraft. The company was sponsoring demo rides for the employees. If I had been passionate about flying my own aircraft before, now I was Possessed! I even formulated plans about how to finance the kit, where to build it, even the paint job. I was going to fly!

About six months after my surgery, I found out that I could not get a private pilot's license because of my ICD. People with pacemakers could get waivers from the FAA, but ICD's were still a relatively new development, and the FAA didn't "trust?" them. Like my father before me, my wings were clipped. End of story? Not quite. Although I cannot get a private pilot's license, I may still be able to fly under the ELSA (I believe it means Experimental Light Sport Aircraft) rules. As long as I can pass the medical, take the requisite training, and the gross weight limit is not exceeded, I can fly. At least, that's the theory. There are a few more restrictions to deal with. The main ones right now would be financial, and getting a doctor to sign off on my flying. According to my cardiologist, my heart is almost back to "normal" two years after my surgery. Although the likelihood of having my ICD removed is pretty slim, I continue to hope.

A Man of Many Talents

2008-11-14T14:07:00.000-08:00

Like my father, I have held many jobs in my life. The military was Dad's career, and flying was one of his jobs in that career. He was also an administrator, an instructor, a strategist, and a student. I don't think he ever stopped learning. He learned, like a lot of us, from teachers and peers. And, like all of us, he probably learned a lot from mistakes, both his and those of others. I know that he believed in being careful, and in taking care of what was his: his family, his car, the plane he was to fly, his tools, and his boat.

Dad bought two boats that I know of. He bought us a small fishing boat and motor from Sears. It was eight feet long, and four feet wide at the beam, and would hold two thousand pounds. It was made of molded fiberglass or PVC, and was filled with foam. It was impossible to sink. I used to take it out during the summer, and go to visit a friend that lived on the water. We would take the motor off, and moor it out in the cove. Then we would see how many people we could get crammed onto it, just to see if it would go under. Just about the time we would get the gunwales under the surface, someone would fall out, and the boat would pop back to the surface. There were many times that I went fishing in the rain, and would have three or four inches of water in the bottom. I never worried about sinking. I would just head for shore, pull up onto the beach, get out, and dump the water out. Then I would head back out. As a result, the boat was known as "The Cork".

The other boat that he bought was a ski/fishing boat. It was an 18 1/2 foot "Seabreeze" bowrider with a cathedral hull, and a (for the time) big outboard motor. Dad couldn't decide which motor to put on it: a 120 H.P. Chrysler, or the 135 Racing Motor. I wanted the 135 and, of course, we got the 120. I remember our first boating trips around the bayous and bay. Dad was careful to not go faster than "half-throttle" most of the time, with occasional short runs at full throttle. I was really disappointed with our boat. It would hardly get up on a plane. I told myself that maybe six people in the boat was hampering the performance, and that with fewer people it might go a little faster. But, it was a good fishing boat, because with the open bow, everybody could fish. And, it did go (barely) fast enough to ski behind. We noticed that although it didn't go as fast as we thought it should, it had plenty of power. We could pull two skiers at once with no noticable reduction in speed. After the motor had been "broken in", we did a lot of skiing. I remember one day, my sister Kathy and I were to have "our turn" to ski. We both jumped in the water, found our ropes, and hollered "HIT IT!!". To our surprise, we were jerked from the water so fast that she lost her rope. I was already up on my ski, and we hadn't even reached the "bubble trail" from the motor yet. I dropped the rope so that I wouldn't leave Kathy behind. Dad, of course, turned the boat around and pulled up next to us in the water. Bryan or Sandy was already pulling the ropes in. "We'll be right back," Dad said. Then our slug/snail boat screamed away like it was jet-powered. They went about a quarter of a mile, turned around, and came to pick us up. We got in the boat, and Dad took off. This boat was fast. Really fast. Of course, I asked what had happened. Evidently, there was a "stiff" spot in the throttle that offered enough resistance that it felt like a stop. Dad, probably also exasperated by the tortoise-like performance, had slammed the throttle hard when we hollered "HIT IT". He had pushed the throttle past the stiff spot and found that we had been running somewhere between 1/3 and 1/2 throttle when we thought we were running at "full". That boat was a lot more fun after that. There were many times that, while skiing with friends, we had eight people in the boat and pulling three slalom skiers and still not running at full throttle. I have always wondered how that boat would have performed with the 135 on it, although it didn't need it. That boat could do an honest 60 mph with three or four people in it. One time, my friend Randy, his girlfriend, another acquaintance, and I found out that Dad had the boat out and decided to see if we could maybe make a ski run or two. We went down to the place that we always went skiing, and found Dad and the boat. After a little pleading, we took off in the boat for a little while so we might do a little skiing. I wanted to ski also, so Randy was driving the boat and I was skiing when we ran down the bayou. Randy turned around at the end of the bayou and opened it up. When we got to the other end, he decided to run down the bayou again and cranked the boat into a hard turn. The water was like glass, and I went to the outside of the turn. I was going so fast that the fin on my ski was vibrating and I could actually hear a high pitched buzzing. I realized that I was going way too fast right about the time I fell. I remember hitting the water three times before I stopped. The people in the boat told me that I did a flip each time I touched the water. When I came back to the surface after my "fall", I noticed that my ski was about 75 feet away. I started swimming toward my ski, and noticed that my toe felt funny. I raised my foot out of the water to investigate, and saw that blood was streaming from my big toe. Somehow, I had split it open. We gathered the ski and me, pulled in the rope, and hightailed it back to where we had parked, and where Dad was. Rather, where Dad was supposed to be. I guess we had been gone so long that he had headed back to the marina or something. We finally got the boat secured, and we piled into the car to go to the emergency room on base. We got there, only to find that they could not stitch me up unless I had a parent/guardian there, since I was still technically a minor. I spent lots of time on the phone trying to get hold of Mom or Dad. Finally, somebody came to the hospital and they put stitches in my toe. Those were the first stitches I had ever gotten. I only wish that they were the only ones that I would get during my life.

If Dad hadn't been so careful while breaking in the boat motor, would it have run as good as it did? Maybe, but probably not for as long. He was pretty good about taking care of his cars, too. I remember being in third grade and asking him what "power steering" did. We happened to have just pulled into our garage at the time. He tried to explain that the power of the engine helped make it easier to steer, but I didn't understand. So, while sitting in the garage with the engine running, he turned the steering wheel with one finger, first one way, then the other. He expressed worry about wearing the tires, but for the sake of my education, he did it anyway. Then he turned the engine off and showed me how difficult it was to turn the steering wheel, even with both hands. That seemed to satisfy me for the time being, but I do remember his concern about the tires.

When he would take me flying, he would stress the importance of a pre-flight inspection of the aircraft. I found it boring and repetitive, but later in my life I saw the importance of it. I was working for a company that built gyroplanes. Actually, we built a kit for other people to build their own aircraft. I wondered about the importance of inspecting the aircraft between flights, especially if it had only been on the ground for a few minutes. One of our aircraft had been out flying in the pattern, giving demo rides to a prospective customer, as well as to some of the employees who had "never been up". After one flight, the pilot made yet another inspection. He found that a support strut for the rotor head was failing. Gyroplanes are one of the safest types of aircraft, but the safety depends upon the rotor head. The entire weight of the aircraft hangs from it. If it fails, or control to it is lost, it can result in an uncontrolled landing (crash). Dad used to tell me that a landing was a "controlled crash", and that a crash was an "uncontrolled landing". There are any number of things that can go wrong (fail) on an aircraft, as well as a car, or even a power tool. Luckily, Dad always knew to take care of, and care about, these things.

Like I said, Dad was a man of many jobs. During his life he was: a truck driver, a fighter pilot and instructor, a "company pilot" flying a salesman around the region, a flying salesman (they got rid of the other guy), a janitorial supplies salesman, a used car salesman, an airplane salesman, a "paperboy", the owner of a paint store, a "soda-jerk", a short-order cook, a grandfather, a GREAT father, and a missionary. Seems like in most of those, he was trying to sell something! At times, he was even trying to "sell" ME! (Let me explain that one.) When I was living in South Florida (West Palm Beach area), Dad, who was living in Logan, Utah at the time, would frequently call me to tell me about all the welding jobs available in Utah. Many of the jobs were in areas that I had little experience in. I would politely listen, and never do anything about it. After many of these calls, I sent him a copy of my resume so that he would know just exactly what my qualifications were, and to "get him off my back", so to speak. Soon, I started getting calls from companies in Utah and Wyoming. Dad had copied my resume and distributed it to any company that had an ad posted. I took down a lot of information from a lot of companies, and told them all that unless they wanted to fly me out for an interview/test and return flight, they would have to wait until I had a bunch of "leads". To my surprise, I actually got enough prospects to warrant a flight to Utah. One interview/test was in Wyoming, so Dad let me borrow a car to drive there. I took the test, but didn't have good feelings about the job. It was out in the middle of nowhere, and I had a wife and soon-to-be-one year old son to think about. Dad offered to chauffeur me down to Salt Lake City and the surrounding area. One company (I remember their phone call: "Yes,. . .I have your resume in my hand and have no idea how I came to have it ") offered to help with relocation expenses if I would hire on with them. Done deal! Now I have been in Utah for 28 years, and I never would have ended up here if my Dad hadn't tried to "sell me". I guess Dad thought (or hoped) that I was like him. . .the best at what I chose to do. . .whatever that might be.

Go West, Young Man. . .Now Go East

2008-11-01T15:47:00.000-07:00

By the age of 19, I had probably (by virtue of frequent moves and regular family vacations) already traveled more miles than most “civilians” would in a lifetime. Most of our travels had taken place by automobile, with the exceptions of traveling to Japan by boat, and returning by airplane. I had already criss-crossed the country countless times. So, long drives didn’t bother me, they were just a normal occurrence in my life. Until moving to Florida in late 1968, the longest I had ever lived in one location had been three years. Now, it was time for another trip. Dad had Judy’s Maverick hooked to the station wagon, and I was pulling the motorcycle on a trailer, and we headed west. We drove as a team, Dad leading the way. If he needed to change lanes, I would move over to that lane first, and serve as a “blocker” so that he could safely make the change. I managed to keep them in sight most of the way, although occasionally they might be as far as a mile ahead of me. There aren’t many hills to block the view in that part of the country. While passing through large cities, I tried to stay right on his tail, but I needn’t have worried; we weren’t going to be “changing highways” very much. As long as I could see that I was still on I-10, I knew I was headed the right direction, and I knew that if I got too far behind, Dad would pull over or slow down until he could once again see me “in his six”. While passing through Texas, I happened to notice something a little out of the ordinary in my rear-view mirror. Every now and then, it seemed like the motorcycle was leaning. Soon, it was leaning farther and farther to one side. Noticing that Dad was about a quarter of a mile ahead of me, I flashed my lights once and pulled over, knowing that he would eventually notice that I was not behind him and turn around. Being the observant fighter pilot that he was, he was pulling over even as I came to a stop. He had seen that I was pulling over, and that his bike was leaning. I got out to try and hold the bike up. One of the straps that had been holding the bike up had broken. I looked up the road and Dad was already running back to help me. We got the bike upright and evaluated the damage. The strap that had broken was too short to be of any use. There wasn’t enough to tie together and still be long enough to reach. Not wanting to be stranded, I was thinking of possible solutions. I remembered that I had a vinyl-covered cable with loops at each end. Leaving Dad to hold the bike up, I opened the trunk and hoped it would be easy to find. Luckily, it was near the “front” of the pile. Then, I hoped that it wouldn’t be too long. If it had been too short, we could have still used the broken straps to fill in the shortage, but being too long wouldn’t help us at all. It was a ¼” braided stainless steel cable inside a vinyl sheath. Cutting it was out of the question. As it turned out, the cable was EXACTLY the right length, and with a couple of padlocks we secured the ends to the trailer and motorcycle. Dad was impressed. The cable held, and we made the rest of the trip without incident.
Whenever we had traveled, Dad had planned our routes to include “potty” breaks, food stops, and lodging stops. “We’ll be stopping in Jackson for lunch”, he might say. And sure enough, we would arrive in Jackson right at lunchtime. Maybe the years of flight plans and briefings gave him the “to the minute” accuracy. My Aunt Jean once remarked, “If Sam tells you he will be there at 4:30 and he get to town at 4:00, I think he must sit at the outskirts for half an hour, so that he pulls in the driveway right at 4:30”. He was that good. (And, no, we never sat at the outskirts of town to kill time.)
Before we left Virginia, Dad had (of course) arranged for a job and a place to live. He was going to sell janitorial supplies. Not just brooms and mops, but floor treatments, waxes, and cleaning solutions. One of the “target customers” was schools, where high traffic could result in high wear, particularly in halls and (especially) gymnasiums. So, when we pulled up in front of the house we were to live in (we had, of course, driven straight to it) we couldn’t set up “housekeeping” until Dad had first applied a few of these floor treatments to the floors. He wanted to be able to tell the customers, from his own experience, how the products performed and whether they were easy or tricky to apply. After a few days, we were able to “move in”. One of the questions that Judy had asked was about the weather in Phoenix (we were actually in Glendale). Dad had told her that it was mostly dry, and that it “only rained a couple of times a year”. So, that first month gave us six rainstorms. (Judy chided Dad about it, saying that we had now gotten “three years of rain” and she hoped we wouldn’t die of thirst NEXT year.)
I filled my gas tank when we got settled, and tried to figure out where I could get a job. Welding jobs were either scarce, or required a higher level of skill (certifications) than I had at the time. I checked with some bicycle shops in the area, because I had been assembling bikes at the toy store and was pretty good at it and had my own tools. But, I just couldn’t seem to find a job. In retrospect, I don’t know that I looked that hard. I made that first tank of gas last for an entire month. I rode the motorcycle a lot while out “looking for employment”.
Much of my time was taken up with my baby sister Jenny. We had a back yard where I spent lots of time pulling her around in a cardboard box, or “throwing” her up in the air and catching her. Judy would frequently be in the kitchen and watch us through the window. Once, I threw Jenny high in the air, and tripped over my pant leg (I was wearing bell-bottoms) while she was “airborne”. It is said that “thought” processes happen at light-speed. This must be true, because I remember the following thoughts going through my head while Jenny was still in the air: “Oh GREAT! I’m falling down. Jenny is counting on me to catch her when she comes down. I won’t be there to catch her. Don’t panic! Oh, crap! Is she going to cry? Will she be hurt? Can I roll under her so she lands on me instead of the ground? This may hurt. That’s okay, better me than Jenny. Is Judy watching? Is she going to witness the “crash”? Is she going to be mad? Furious? Boy, this really sucks. Just when we were starting to get along. Where’s Jenny? I can do this. Come on, Roger, you’re fast. There she is, she’s coming down. Does she have those hard little shoes on? You’re gonna rip your pants. Is Judy watching? C’mon, arms out. Gotcha!” I had always been able to move fast, I had usually been the “last one standing” when we had played Dodgeball during school. How I did it, I don’t know, but I caught Jenny just like I always did. A quick look at the window showed Judy just like she always looked. I decided that maybe it was time for a little break, and collapsed on the grass. After my heart returned to normal beating, we played some more with the cardboard box. It was safer. Years later, I asked Judy if she remembered seeing my “ballet” in the yard that day. Neither she or Jenny ever knew how close it had been. I guess I inherited Dad’s quick reflexes.
Sometime, during his youth, Dad had injured his shoulder joint. For some reason, his being thrown from a horse and hitting a fence comes to mind. But that could be wrong. Anyway, his shoulder would come out of the socket. Usually at a bad time (is there ever a good time?). Once, it happened while we were on vacation. We were camping, and had gone down to the lake to swim. We had all worked our way out into the water, and Dad decided that he would dive over into the water. He arched over and disappeared. When he broke the surface seconds later, he was holding his arm over his head. Evidently, he had gotten his arm in just the “right” position, and his shoulder joint separated. This was the first time I had seen it happen, and I was scared. There happened to be a large man out swimming, and he came to assist. They got his shoulder back in after a little “wrestling”. Another time, Dad was water skiing and fell. When he realized that his shoulder was out again, he was so angry that he started thrashing around and was able to slip it back in while still in the water. I asked him if being pulled around on skis by his arms was a good idea. He replied that, as long as he didn’t fall, the “tension” on his shoulder held it in. I don’t know how many times he threw his shoulder out, over the years, but he said that every time it happened, his shoulder got “weaker” and easier to pop out. And if he could get it “back in” quickly, the damage was minimal. However, if it took a long time, the muscles would start to swell, and make it harder to work it back in.
Dad’s shoulder went out shortly after moving to Arizona. I tried, and Judy tried, to help him get it back in. But, out of nervousness, fear, and inexperience, I was unable to help him guide it back in place. By this time, his shoulder muscles were swelling, and it was time to go to the doctor. We got Dad to the station wagon and Judy drove us to the hospital at Luke AFB. They gave Dad a muscle relaxer pill to swallow, and we waited. They gave him another pill, and we waited some more. They finally gave him an injection and we waited a little bit more. Both of the pills and the shot seemed to hit all at once. The doctor was able to easily slip the joint back in. Dad, however, felt none of it. He was off in “La La Land”. After bandaging and slinging his arm, they sent us home. Dad sang the whole way home. I guess it was singing, anyway. He was rather unintelligible. We got home and put him to bed where he slept through the night, and probably part of the next morning.
During this time, and the final couple of months in Virginia, the girl who had “dumped” me had started to miss me. I had been corresponding with her on a regular basis. I had stopped in to see her while in Florida for the holidays, and our “relationship” had warmed up a little. So, that may have been a factor in my half-hearted attempts to find a job. Around the end of that January, I received a phone call. It was from my former employer in Florida. “Come on home, we need you”.
I gathered my belongings and stuffed them into my car. I had “rescued” a couple of miniature billiard tables from the trash while working at the toy store in Virginia. I tried desperately to fit one or both of them into my car, but my trunk “opening” was just one inch too small to fit even the smaller one in. I pulled out the passenger seat and folded it up in the back seat in an effort to make it fit, but to no avail. Sadly, I was to leave my pool tables behind. Dad handed me a gas credit card, and enough money to eat and sleep on, and just a little extra. We shook hands, hugged, and I was on my way. There were good things and bad things about the trips between Florida and Arizona. The good part was that I didn’t have to do much navigating. I just got on the interstate and headed (depending on which state I was headed for) east or west until I got there. The bad part was that I was always heading east or west. Which put the sun in my eyes for half a day, every day. On the trip out to Arizona, I solved this dilemma by wearing my cutting goggles while driving into the sun. They were basically really dark sunglass lenses. They cut the glare quite well. They had worked fine on the way out, and I again put them on when the sun got into the windshield, which was the first half of the day. I would take them off after the sun got “over the roof”, and maybe put them on as the sun filled my rearview mirror. It was kind of lonely out on the road, and I had gone through all of my 8-track tapes at least twice by the time I got into Texas. I filled my time by trying to analyze occupations of people that either passed me, or that I passed. I remember one car distinctly: a Cadillac with three “carousels” of sunglasses in the back seat. I remember it because I saw it more than once. It passed me, and I noticed the sunglasses. Then I passed it while it was pulled over on the side of the road to pick up a hitch-hiker, then it passed me again a few miles on down the road. Close to the next large town, I saw a man standing on the side of the road. He had a duffle bag, some new sunglasses, and some crutches. I pulled over, and offered him a ride. I apologized for the missing passenger seat (it was still folded up in the back seat), but told him he was welcome to “stretch out on the floor” if he wanted to. He tossed his duffle in and climbed in after it. He was able to use his duffle as a backrest, and stretch his legs out. He later told me that it was the most comfortable ride that he had gotten. His name was Chip and he was headed for Houston, and would appreciate riding any miles I was willing to drive in that direction. He had a bad leg, I don’t remember exactly what the problem was, though. Enjoying his company, I detoured off my planned route and drove him to Houston, where we finally found the trailer park that his sister lived in. I planned to drop him off, and go find a motel. They (his family and in-laws) would not hear of it. They fed me, and put me up for the night on their couch. I awoke early the next morning, had breakfast with them, and headed for the gas station next to the trailer park. This was in early 1974, which was a time of rationing and limits at many gas stations. I pulled up to the pump, and a man I had met the night before (a relative of the hitch-hiker) came out to pump my gas. I noticed a sign that said “$2.00 limit” on the pump. Figuring that I would try to “fill up” after I got out of Houston, I told him to give me what he could. I watched the meter on the gas pump hit $1.00, then approach $2.00. Then it went to $3.00 and beyond. The guy filled my tank completely! Worried that I might not have that much cash, I waited for him to come to my window. “That’ll be $2.00, please”. I tried to point out that I owed him much more than that, and he looked me in the eye and said, ”I can’t sell more than two dollars to anybody. Thanks for bringing Chip home.” He winked at me, shook my hand, took my two dollars, and I was on my way.
I marveled at my good fortune as I drove. Not for getting eight or nine dollars worth of gas for only TWO dollars, but that there were still people like that in the world. People not afraid to ask for, or to give help. They felt lucky because their brother had been returned to them safely. I felt lucky just to have met them. My streak of “luck” didn’t end there. Later in the day, I passed through a very small town and decided to find a gas station. I pulled in, and noticed that the pumps listed the price of gas as $.329 a gallon. This was when gas was selling for $.65 to $.75, or higher. I filled my tank and went in to pay for my gas. I commented to the woman at the register that I thought her pumps must be wrong, and was prepared to pay the “real” price. “Well, they’ve never come out to change my pumps, and I can’t sell it all,” she said. “In fact, they’re going to cut my allotment because I can’t sell all that I have been getting”. Right then, I wished that I had a 50-gallon drum in the trunk. Later that day, a station wagon passed me. There was a little kid in the back and he was staring and pointing at me. Soon, another kid joined in. Worried that I might be getting a flat or something, I prepared to pull over. I glanced up at my mirror to see if anyone was behind me, and started laughing. I had forgotten to take my cutting goggles off after the sun got high enough! I must have looked like a mad scientist or something. I drove the rest of the way to Florida that day. I drove alongside the beach, and rolled down my windows and inhaled deeply. I was almost home. I drove through town, pulled into a driveway, and got out of my car. I stretched, then walked into the only house in town where I didn’t have to knock on the door.

Chantilly, Virginia

2008-10-31T15:14:00.000-07:00

Dad and Judy lived in Chantilly, Virginia. I had secured my job at Toys “R” Us in Fairfax, about 15 minutes away. But, since I had left my car in Florida, I didn’t have transportation to and from work. Dad and Judy both worked in the Pentagon, so I couldn’t “bum” a ride with either of them. Once again, it was Dad to the rescue. He had a Honda 500 motorcycle in his garage that he generously (although possibly semi-grudgingly) offered me the use of for my commute. Judy used to tease Dad about his “infatuation” with the motorcycle. Evidently, Dad had been in the garage and was wiping the dust off of the tank when Judy came out into the garage. She “accused” Dad of “petting” his motorcycle. This had happened before I went up to Virginia. And she didn’t let him live it down. This period of time, in Virginia, was the first I had ever spent much time around my stepmother. Hearing her tease my Dad about petting his motorcycle, and other things kind of “rubbed me wrong” for some reason. I don’t know if I was being protective of him or not, but I wasn’t used to hearing or seeing him “attacked” in any way. At least not by someone else. Maybe I figured that I should be the one kidding around with him. After all, he WAS my Dad. So, my initial impressions of my stepmom were that, basically, she was a smart-aleck. And, like the stereotypical westerns, there “wasn’t enough room” for the both of us, because I was also a smart-aleck. I would trade “barbs” with her frequently, and a lot of times I probably got (out of frustration) a little meaner than I should have. I probably said some hurtful things to her that I will never be able to take back, and I will always regret that. But, in some ways, I shouldn’t have worried about it. Because, just when I thought I might have gotten the last word (or “zinger”), she would slam-dunk me with a better one. It used to frustrate the hell out of me. If she ever lost her temper with me during these exchanges, she never showed it. I was “outclassed” from the very start. I think some of my frustration came from the fact that she was only eleven years older than me: “too old to be my friend, and too young to boss me around”. I turned 19 while in Virginia, which made her 30.
I rode the motorcycle to and from work for a short time, but really missed my car. I don’t remember the exact circumstances, whether I flew back down to Florida, or we all drove down together, but I was able to get my car and drive it back to Virginia. Having my own “wheels” freed me up a little. I was able to explore the area a little, on my days off from the toy store, and meet people that I didn’t work with or live with. I tried to develop a social life.
One evening Dad tried to help me in that respect. My stepmother was working as a secretary in the Pentagon, and she brought one of her co-workers home after work to have dinner with us. Her name was Rene G., and she was older than me by probably 7 or 8 years. I remember thinking that she was very attractive, for a “grown woman”. At dinner, Dad tried to stimulate conversation (and, I think, interest) between Rene and me. Looking back, I think the “relationship” was doomed from the start. She was polite, yet easy to talk with, and had a sense of humor. I tried to appeal to her sense of humor. After all, I considered myself an entertaining person. I remember telling her a lot of jokes regarding (in the interest of being politically correct) people from Poland. I told her some of my “best ones”, and she laughed at all of them. I figured I was “making points” with her, when she said she had one for me. “What is black and blue and sits in a corner crying?” she asked me. I racked my brain, but could not come up with the correct answer. She looked me in the eye, and said, “The next S.O.B. that tells a Polish joke.” I soon found out that her last name was of Polish origin (I can’t remember the exact pronunciation or spelling) and all those brownie points had gone down the drain. I think Dad and Judy did the right thing by letting me put my foot in my mouth. Yes, they could have given me “warning”, but I probably would have ended up embarrassing myself some other way. It knocked me down a notch, and I deserved it.
Another time, Dad and Judy invited a couple to the house for dinner. I believe that they were both Officers who were also stationed at the Pentagon. I remember them well, although I don’t remember the man’s name. But the woman’s name was Yvonne, (and to this day I still think she is one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen), and she was Black. Whether this white man and black woman were a “couple” or not, I don’t know. But they were both really nice people, and they obliged themselves to include me into their “grown up” conversations at the table.
One of the best things about being in Virginia was my little sister “Jenny”. Jennifer Ellen was a few months past her first birthday when I moved up there. She became my best friend and favorite pastime. She would call for me when she woke up from her naps, and in the morning. The house we were in had a vaulted ceiling in the living room, and I would throw her as high as I could in the air, and catch her when she came down. Then I would hold her at arm’s length, and she would start kicking impatiently, as if to say “Come on, do it again!” This “game” was played at every opportunity for the duration of my stay with Dad and Judy.
Dad was due to “pin on his Eagles”, or be promoted to (bird) Colonel, sometime in the first part of 1974. However, this promotion would mean that the only thing he would “fly” would be a desk. Rather than having his “wings clipped”, he decided to retire from the Air Force at the end of 1973. In the period leading up to his retirement, he investigated different avenues of employment/income to supplement his pension. One of these involved multilevel marketing, where someone recruited someone else to sell a product, and both parties would receive a portion of the proceeds. There are many of them out there (the most recognizable being AMWAY), and most of them are a legitimate means of generating a decent income, depending upon the “level” of one’s involvement. Dad didn’t want to waste time working his way up from being a “sales person”, so he invested some money into “inventory” so that he could start right out as a “distributor”. Right about the time he did this, one of the major “news magazines” ran an article about the “multilevel marketing” schemes. Apparently, there were (are) a lot of them out there, and not all of them seemed to deliver the desired results, due to: inferior product/customer service quality and/or, sometimes, out-and-out fraudulent business practices. Since the last thing my father would have ever done would be to give anyone the impression of having been defrauded, he lost faith in his “business venture”. This resulted in a garage full of cleaning products which, while being quality products that performed as advertised, he couldn’t market with a clean conscience. We used the products, and they worked. But Dad ended up donating the entire lot to a rest home, or someplace like that, when it came time to leave Virginia.
Dad decided that after his retirement we would go to Phoenix, Arizona. Prior to these events, other things had to be addressed: how to get three cars (I decided that I would go with them) and a motorcycle from Virginia to Arizona, whether to move the “soap” or donate it, what kind of employment to seek, etc. Getting the Honda to Phoenix turned out to be pretty easy. Dad would buy a motorcycle trailer, and we would install a trailer hitch on my car. Dad, Judy and Jen would tow Judy’s car behind the station wagon. We got the motorcycle trailer and assembled it in the garage. When we got it put together, we set about the task of installing the hitch on my car. We were encountering some difficulty in attaching it, as some holes needed to be enlarged to facilitate the bolts required. I told Dad that we really needed a 3/8” drill bit to ream out a couple of holes. We had every size except for the one we needed. This was in December, and it was cold in the garage. Judy came out to the garage to check on us, or tell us that dinner was ready, or something. She overheard us talking about needing a 3/8” drill. She disappeared for a few moments, and returned with a box. It contained a brand-new 3/8” (capacity) electric drill. It was to have been a Christmas present for Dad, but she gave it to him “early”. Not wanting to hurt her feelings or embarrass her, neither one of us bothered to point out that it was a 3/8” drill bit that we really needed. (By this point in my life, I guess I was coming to the realization that Judy wasn't really that bad. In fact, hurting her feelings never entered my mind). We somehow reamed the holes out and got the hitch installed. We struggled with the wiring harness for the trailer lights, but eventually everything was connected correctly. A few days later, we hooked up the trailer, loaded the motorcycle on it, and I headed to Florida for Christmas, prior to continuing on to Arizona. Dad and Judy would leave a few days later, and we would “caravan” to Phoenix after Christmas. I remember driving through West Virginia. As I crossed into one county, I passed a police car, probably a County Sheriff. I glanced in the mirror, and sure enough, they had pulled out after me. Granted, I probably presented an unusual sight: a young man with shoulder-length hair driving a muscle car, towing a “full dress” motorcycle. I got a little nervous when I noticed the deputy riding “shotgun” in the car had reached down and come up with a shotgun whose stock he rested on his knee. It stayed there the entire trip through the county. At the “other end” of the county, they stopped and turned around. I’m glad I didn’t have to stop for any reason while passing through the county. I drove the rest of the way “home” non-stop without incident. It took exactly 24 hours to go from Chantilly, Virginia to Fort Walton Beach, Florida. While in Florida for the holidays, the weather was good. Perfect, in fact, for motorcycle riding. When I got to Mom’s house, I got the bike off the trailer and rode it for the week or so that I was there. After Christmas, we put the bike back on the trailer and headed for Phoenix.

Two Weddings and Two Funerals

2008-10-17T17:45:00.000-07:00

I met my current (and last) wife when, after the disastrous DUI incident, I moved into a small fourplex (2 up, 2 down). I lived in one of the downstairs apartments. They were “semi-basement” apartments. The upstairs apartments had a balcony, and I had a “patio” which was probably three or four times as big as the balconies. I remember when the woman upstairs moved in. Actually, I remember her two daughters moving in. One appeared to be around five years old, and the other could have been anywhere from eight to twelve years older than the little one. I didn’t see much of the woman, she apparently worked somewhere. And when she was home, she kept to herself. She didn’t have a lot of visitors. That was about all I knew about her. One day, there was a knock on my door. When I opened the door, there were the two girls from upstairs. The little one had a really grumpy expression on her face, and the older one appeared to be forcing her to stay on my doorstep. The older one said (to the little one), “Go on, tell him!” Evidently, the little girl had dropped or thrown a bottle off her balcony and it had broken all over the cement patio. The older girl had brought her down to “clean it up”. Somewhat amused, I noticed that the little girl was barefoot. I told them that I would clean it up and to not worry about it. That was my introduction to Angela and her big sister, Hilarie. Possibly, because I hadn’t made (or allowed) her to clean up the broken glass, Angela soon became my friend. And through her, and her (sometimes non-stop) chatterings, I learned about her family: her mom wasn’t married, her name was Janet and she worked in Salt Lake, she didn’t have a boyfriend, etc. Because “Janet” worked all day, Hilarie was left with the responsibility to keep an eye on Angie after school. And, I must admit, she did a darn good job.
One time, one of the other tenants in the building scheduled a barbecue. I planned on bringing something to cook, and wondered if the shy lady upstairs would like to come. I went upstairs, knocked on the door, and when the lady (Janet) opened the door, I said, “Barbecue tonight, be there or be square”, or something to that effect. I finally convinced her that she needed to come. Janet and I became friends, then good friends. We spent a lot of time together. I would get up in the morning, and call her so that she could come down for a cup of coffee. But, I made it “clear” that I wasn’t looking for a “girlfriend”. After two failed marriages, I wasn’t ready to make any commitments. I knew that she cared for me a great deal, and in an effort to “sort things out” in my mind, I moved into Salt Lake City, about 10 miles or so from her. As it turned out, we saw each other more after I moved away. I lived in SLC for almost a year, then decided that I couldn’t outrun fate. I asked her to marry me, and as of this writing, we have been married for sixteen years. Our wedding was just a small one in one of the auxiliary rooms at the church. Her mother and brothers, my ex-mother-in-law, and our 5 children made up the “wedding party”. As we had a relatively short engagement period, a month or less, there really wasn’t time to get anyone from my family out to Utah for the wedding. So Janet had never “met” any of my family. She had talked to all of them on the phone at various times, but had never “been in the same room”. After we had been married for just over a year, my brother got married. We drove to Texas for the wedding. The whole way there, Janet was nervous. Repeated queries of “What if they don’t like me?” and similar questions plagued me the entire trip. I constantly assured her that my family already liked her and accepted her. She mellowed out a little, but was especially scared to meet Dad. She had heard some of the stories from my youth, and figured (mistakenly) that he was a really strict, no-nonsense, military man. She would say, half-jokingly, “Should I hug him or salute him?” We finally arrived at the motel where everyone was staying. As we were opening the door to the lobby, to find out where the family was, my sister Kathy walked around the corner. She led us back to the room where the family was. When we walked into the room, not only was my family there, but my Uncle John and Aunt Jean (Dad’s brother and sister) as well. Somewhat overwhelmed, Janet was introduced to everyone, and when she finally met Dad, all of her concerns and worries evaporated almost immediately. She was accepted, without exception, into the family at once. We met Bryan’s bride, Lesli, who probably had shared some similar concerns prior to meeting the whole family. Our trip back to Utah the next day was different than the trip out. Janet was much more relaxed, and maybe a little sheepish over her previous concerns about meeting the family, and especially Dad.
In the summer of 1995, Dad organized a family reunion in Florida. Our first grandchild was born a week or so before we left for Florida, so Brian, her son, did not go with us. The logistics of getting the other six of us there (Janet and myself, Angie and Hilarie, and my sons Jared and Logan) got worked out in time, and we boarded a plane for New Orleans where we rented a car and drove the rest of the way to the Sunshine State. Dad had rented two houses on the beach for the week-long reunion. Janet and I, with our family, stayed in one house while Bryan’s family and Sandy’s family stayed in the other one. All the “meetings” and communal activities also took place at the other house. The reunion happened to coincide with Dad’s birthday. We all lined up and one by one, gave Dad/Grandpa a birthday hug. As soon as we had done that, we would immediately run to the back of the line and do it again. I think Dad must have gotten well over a hundred hugs from 20-30 people. Looking back, we probably wore him out, but he never complained about it. It was probably during the reunion that Dad and Hilarie got to spend some quality time together. I remember that one time Dad had to go somewhere, and Hilarie just climbed in the car with him and off they went. The week went by way too fast, and soon we were driving back to New Orleans for the flight home.
We eventually bought a house and tried to “put down roots”. During this time, our children grew, we became grandparents, and, like any family, had our share of ups and downs. Dad made trips out every couple of years for visits. Janet always expressed concerns over his driving all the way to Utah alone. After all, he was (depending on which time he came out) in his late 60’s or early 70’s. She needn’t have worried. Dad would sing while driving, and would take necessary rest breaks. He made the trip out and back many times without incident. During one of his visits, he commented to Janet that he was particularly impressed with Hilarie, and how she had turned out. Dad and Hilarie had bonded almost immediately. She loved him like a blood-relative.
As Dad was getting a little older with each visit, I began to realize that there were lots of things we had never talked about. Trivial things, some of them, like “how high had he flown, how fast had he gone, etc.” During one of his last visits, I asked him these and other questions. Since I share his love of flight (I would rather fly than eat, and I love to eat), I asked him how he had felt the first time he soloed in a jet fighter. Expecting to hear that his “heart soared” with elation, I was somewhat surprised when he replied that he had been too busy to really enjoy the moment. “I was slapping the gear up, searching the sky, talking to the tower, checking my gauges, and never had time until later to give it much thought.” But overall, he said, it was an “enjoyable experience”. Dad was getting weaker around this time, and sometimes had trouble with his balance. We saw him “pinball” down the hall on the way to the bathroom more than once.
Our second grandchild was born on November 2, 2001, less than two months after 9/11. While talking on the phone to Dad around this time, he mentioned that he had called the government and volunteered his services. Not as a pilot, but more as an advisor. He certainly had the necessary experience. But they respectfully told him that they had things under control and thanked him. A month later, on Sunday, December 2, Janet and I were sitting on the couch watching television all afternoon. Hilarie had just moved back home after about a year of being on her own. I had moved the last of her stuff back on Friday night. A show about, of all things, embalming and autopsies came on Discovery Channel. A rather dreary topic, but the show was, in a way, fascinating. I remember thinking during the show (more than once) “Why are we watching this, instead of something else?” The program concluded, and Janet mentioned that maybe it was time for Hilarie to get up. We sent Angie down to wake her. Angie came back up and said that Hilarie wouldn't wake up and that she was cold. I started to go down, but remembered that Janet had mentioned that sometimes Hilarie slept "in the raw". Rather than have her wake up and be embarrassed, I told Janet to go down and wake her. I then headed for the back of the house. I heard Janet yell Hilarie’s name, then shriek it followed by my name. I don’t remember taking the stairs, although I know that I must have. I just remember suddenly I was in Hilarie’s room. Hilarie had passed away probably shortly after she had gone to bed a little after midnight. She was four months shy of her 24th birthday. I had little time to even be in shock, before I “felt” my Dad’s voice tell me that “I had work to do” and there would be plenty of time for mourning. Dad was right, again. The following week was a blur. There were funeral arrangements to be made, a burial plot secured, a funeral program to be organized, as well as calling everyone to tell them the bad news. When I called Dad, he said he would be there. He, and my sister Jen’s husband Doug, flew out together. I had never met Doug before, but he pitched right in. Before the week was out, he had helped plan things, run errands, and agreed to be one of Hilarie’s pallbearers. All in addition to keeping an eye on Dad, who was getting kind of frail. In our Church, we believe that all worthy men can hold the priesthood, and one of the priesthood ordinances is the dedication of a grave site. I asked my father to perform that sacred ordinance, not only because he was probably one of the most “priesthood-worthy”men that I knew, but also because of the love and respect that Hilarie and he had for each other. It was only fitting that he dedicate her grave. And, of course, he humbly accepted my invitation. In addition to organizing the funeral, I also got the opportunity/responsibility to deliver her eulogy. Every time I sat down at the computer to write something, my mind would go blank. The day of the funeral arrived, and after some final family “goodbyes”, the casket was closed and the “program” was to start. I got up to speak, and it was easy. I spoke of a young woman that I had loved, and who had loved me. There were humorous anecdotes, and eye-watering memories. At the conclusion of my talk, I was leaving the podium to be with my family, and my father caught my eye. He gave me a quiet, “thumbs up”. That meant a lot to me. It would be two weeks before I could allow myself to “run down” and give in to my grief. I wept, as I know my father probably also did.

In the fall of 2002, I went back to Florida for my 30-year high school class reunion. While there, I managed to get over to Tallahassee to visit Dad. My mother and sister Kathy also went along. When we got to Dad and Judy’s house, I walked in and saw my father in the kitchen, puttering with a sandwich or something. He turned, saw me, and took a step toward me. He thrust out his hand, and introduced himself: “Hi, Sam Fields”. (That was how he had introduced himself as far back as I could remember). Then, recognizing me, he gave me a hug. Dad was suffering from Alzheimer’s and dementia. If I could erase that fleeting look of helplessness on his face right as he recognized me, I would. And, at that moment, I saw and recognized my father’s mortality for the first time. My sister Jen and her husband showed up shortly afterward and we all had a nice visit and took some pictures. As we were leaving, I felt that I might be seeing Dad for the last time.
In February of 2003, I answered the phone one morning. It was Judy, my stepmother. She was crying and told me that my father had died that morning. Again, I felt my father’s voice tell me that I once again had work to do. Realizing that I had just become the Patriarch of the family, I asked, “What do you need me to do?” Judy replied that, if I could contact the rest of the “kids” and let them know, that would be of great help. I contacted my brother and sisters, and a family that my father had known years prior in Ohio or someplace, that now lived in the same town as I did. I set about getting transportation to Florida. My younger son, Logan accompanied me on the plane, and my older son flew to Tallahassee from Boston, where he was attending school. We made it through the funeral week, although the funeral was kind of tough. My brother and two of my sisters were going to sing at the funeral. They asked me if I would sing with them. I refused. Not because of any shame about my voice, but because I didn’t know if I would be able to make it through all the verses of the hymn. “Well, at least practice with us.” They had told me that they would be able to get another bass singer, but he could not be there for a while, or something. Then, as we started to practice, I asked myself whether Dad would shrink from the responsibility. I told my brother and sisters that I would sing with them, and if I broke down, then so be it. Dad would have done it. We sang “Each Life that Touches Ours For Good”. I also had the privilege of delivering my father’s eulogy that day.
Logan and I were to fly back to Utah from Tampa. Judy took us halfway, and a very close friend came and met us and took us the rest of the way. While waiting for my friend, we were sitting in the car and talking. I know that Judy had been through one hell of a week. I know that I certainly had. And I saw her in a different light. Long-forgotten and (I thought) long-resolved guilt nagged at me. I told her that, although Dad was now gone, the bond between us had not died, and I told her that I loved her and still thought of her as Family. How many years had I carried the weight that had now been lifted? Too many, that’s for sure. Dad would have never waited that long.

Memories and other stuff

2008-10-15T20:33:00.000-07:00

In the late '50's, we were stationed in Japan. In order to get to Japan, we took a "cruise" on a troop transport ship. I was very young, probably around three years old at the time. I can remember walking around the deck, and looking down through the railing to the deck below. I remember seeing lots of white sailor's hats from up above. I don't really remember seeing the actual sailors that were wearing them, but the white hats stand out in my memory. I remember sitting in the mess hall on the ship and watching my soup rock in the bowl from the wave action. My mother told me that when we first started our "cruise", the mess hall was full of people, but after a day or so, we were frequently almost alone. Most of the people were going to the ship's store and buying a box of crackers to eat in their cabins, because they were seasick. Dad made sure we had regular walks around the deck. To this day, and to the best of my knowledge, I have never been seasick. I believe that it is all in one's mind. I know, there are people who will say, "No, you're wrong. It's all in my gut." I disagree. When we were in Florida in the late 60's and early 70's, Dad bought a boat. An 18 1/2' boat so that we could go skiing and fishing. One time, we were fishing in the Gulf. There were swells of 5 to 8 feet that day. But it wasn't "rough". The swells were smooth and rounded, so the boat just rode up and down. My brother Bryan concentrated maybe a little too hard on the movement of the boat. Soon, he was throwing up over the side. Shortly after he became "sick", a fish took one of the baits we were trolling. At Dad's direction, the rod was removed from the rod holder, the hook "set", and handed to Bryan. Needless to say, he forgot about his seasickness, and fought the 17-lb. mackerel to the side of the boat. To my knowledge, he has never been seasick since.

I recently got a letter from my Mom, who had been reading my "blog". She related to me the story of how, when we were to leave MacDill AFB for Davis-Monthan, she and Dad went to Arizona to find housing. When they got to the housing office (for base housing) they were shown a map of the available houses on base. A woman who happened to be there at the same time, pointed out a particular address and told them,"You don't want to live in this one. The next door neighbors are Negroes." Dad told the housing officer, "We'll take that one." Maybe he saw an opportunity for a "lesson" in the future, but it was a lesson that never had to be taught. Like I wrote in an earlier post, we were never taught prejudice. I remember in Clovis, NM (Dad was stationed at Cannon AFB) in 1959-1960, that my friend and I were walking through the neighborhood (I was probably barely six years old) when a young black man rode by us on a bicycle. My friend pointed at him as he disappeared down the street and asked me, "'You know what that was? That was a nigger." I had never heard that word before in my life, and thought that it was a strange-sounding word. It would be years before I would finally make the connection between that ugly word and skin color. It was certainly a word I had never heard at MY house. In fact, I promptly forgot about the incident, and forgot about the word. My dad never used that word, and he was able to teach me that it, and other derogatory terms, were unacceptable. In fact, if he had used that word, he probably would have clarified his position that it had nothing to do with color. After I got out on my own, I realized that I knew very few black people that might "qualify" for that word, but I knew plenty of "white" people that warranted the label. I find the word distasteful.
Anyway, back to Japan. When we arrived in Japan, we didn't have our base housing yet, so we were billeted in temporary housing called "Wherry Housing". They were probably portable buildings. Anyway, I remember we had a radiant heater/furnace in our "house". Every night after dinner, Dad would walk over and stand in front of the heater, and I would stand next to him. He would reach out his hands and warm them over the heat, then turn his hands over and warm the back of his hands. He would repeat this about three times. I copied every move he made. And I knew, that after the third "hand flip", that it was time for me to go to bed. I know it doesn't seem like much, but I recently had an insight as to how he might have felt: when my youngest grandson, Clayton, and his daddy (my son) came over for my birthday. Clayton is two years old. After he "warmed up" to being at Grandma Janet and Grandpa's house, he followed me around the room and mimicked a lot of my actions. "Imitation" is said to be the sincerest form of flattery. I was awfully flattered that day, and I immediately remembered copying my Dad's actions at the heater so many years ago.

My Other Dad

2008-10-12T16:52:00.000-07:00

We left Missouri after Dad's return from Viet Nam, and went to Ft. Walton Beach, Florida. I remember that Mom and Dad had left us in Missouri with our grandparents while they shopped for a house. They found one that was just being finished, and called us to ask what color we wanted our bedrooms to be. I, being barely 14, of course said "black". My brother said "white". Since we had to share a room, we compromised on a shade of grey. After we moved in, and had gotten started in school, I met a kid that lived pretty close to us. He had just moved there, too. And, he had also moved from Missouri. And, there was only eleven days' difference in our ages. And, his dad was a fighter pilot too. Randy Parker and I became lifelong friends. Through thick and thin, you could usually find Randy and me together. We did all the regular stuff: fishing, bike riding, sneaking cigarettes, and in later years we rode motorcycles together, shared a school carpool, and generally got into or avoided trouble together. Randy's dad, (I think he was a Major when we met) flew the F-104 Starfighter, another one of the "Century Fighters". It was commonly referred to as the "missile with a man in it". Again, the Century-series fighters frequently served as test-beds for new aviation technology, and could be dangerous if one didn't have the "touch". Since Dad was gone a lot, and I spent lots of time with Randy, I also spent time around his Dad. In fact, his whole family accepted me into their world. Many was the time that I would be at Randy's house, and we would walk into the kitchen and dinner would be on. And almost without exception, there would be a place set for me. I got to be in on "family" conversations with them, and Randy's dad would be there to give me a little advice, if needed, and sometimes if we (Randy and I) had been up to, let's just say "mischief", I would be chastised (although gently) along with my cohort. At some point in time, our fathers both got to pin on their silver leaves signifying promotion to Lt. Colonel. Col. Parker invited my Dad and me to go fishing in the Gulf with them in their boat. I can't really speak for Randy, but I think he felt the same thing I did: It was just really "cool" to be out with our fathers, and even "cooler" that they had something in common. They were both Fighter Pilots. Neither of them ever really "bragged" about their exploits in the air, but I recall them talking "shop" while we were out in the boat. Col. Parker always had some type of "project" that he was working on. One time it was "nesting" tables for the family room. Another time he was making a fishing rod. I think it must have taken him days to finally get all the guides secured to the rod blank and wound with thread to hold them on. He would get one mounted (he put the rod in an electric drill to rotate the rod while he "fed" the thread onto the rod) and almost get it done, and the thread would break, or overlap. Finally, it was done to his satisfaction. I remember he built a wooden tackle box with drawers for different lures and plugs, etc. It was a work of art, to me.

There were times, while Randy was off at college, that I would just stop by the Parker's house just to chat and visit. I was (and am) that comfortable with them. I didn't always get to see Col. Parker on my visits, but when he was home, I was invited into the family room and we would just talk. About darn near anything. Work. Play. Women. And occasionally even a little politics.

Col. Parker passed away in 1994, a couple of years after I remarried. I was living in Utah, and my mother called and told me. I immediately called the Parker home to express my true sorrow and to offer my condolences. Mrs. Parker is still my "second mom", and Randy and I have been friends for 40 years now.

At Eglin AFB in Ft. Walton, there is an aerospace museum with many aircraft on static display. I am honored to say that the F-104 on display has Col. Parker's name painted on the side. That, to me, says that he too, was an exempliary pilot.

No, Col. Parker wasn't my father, but he was the kind of man Dad was. Honest, Brave, Patriotic, Humble, a Man among Men. A Fighter Pilot.

Dad's Dreams

2008-10-12T14:58:00.000-07:00

Lt. Col. Samuel E. Fields
An Officer and a Gentleman

Dad always wanted nothing but the best for his 5 kids. One of his "dreams" was to see all his children go to college. Maybe another one was for his sons to join the military (preferably the Air Force). I know that at times I was a disappointment to him. I had the opportunity to join the Air Force, and "chickened out" at the very last minute. Since my grades in high school had been marginal, I decided that I should probably wait a year before I tried college. So I got a full time job. Then, (we were in Florida at the time) I got hooked on the power of the almighty dollar, and put college off for another year. Then the State of Florida made a big mistake: they dropped the (legal) drinking age to 18. I was already 19 at the time it happened, so I must have felt that I needed to make up that year I had "lost". I moved out on my own with another friend from high school. We shared an apartment that was too expensive for us, and proceeded to party. I was fond of saying that our experience in that apartment was just a "four-month housewarming party". There was always drinking and partying going on. Why just four months? After all, we had signed a six-month lease on the place. My roommate lost his job and we broke the lease. We were later sued for damages to the apartment in addition to the two months' rent we were legally obligated to pay. I paid my portion and got on with my life. By this time, I was a fairly accomplished welder. I was able to pass all the required certifications for working on defense contracts. There seemed to be a prerequisite for being a welder: smoking, drinking, and cussing. Like I said, I was a good welder. Years later, after my second divorce, I lived in my pickup truck through a summer and into the fall. As winter was fast approaching, I knew that I needed to find a roof to put over my head. I started checking the classified for "roommate wanted" ads. I found one and called the person. I set up an appointment for that afternoon. In the meantime, I went to a friend's house to help him re-tar his roof. Up on that roof, next to the tar pot, it was kind of warm, so we had some beer to help keep us "hydrated". Then at the appointed time, I left to meet my prospective roommate. I found the place, a nice double-wide trailer in a trailer park. I knocked on the door and introduced myself. He asked if I would like something to drink. I asked for a beer, but all he had was liquor. So, I asked for a bourbon and water. When I tasted it, it was like rocket fuel. Really strong. Even for me. After probably 30-45 minutes, I noticed a baby grand piano. I don't "play", but I can read music and pick stuff out by ear. The guy asked me to play something. About that time, I felt like I had been hit in the head with a baseball bat. I got really dizzy, and I couldn't hit any of the piano keys I was "aiming" for. He suggested that I sit back down on the couch for a little while, and handed me another drink. That was the last thing I needed right then, but I had a few more sips of rocket fuel while resting. Then, and only then, did he tell me that he had already "filled" the vacancy, but that he had wanted to meet me anyway. I stood up with some difficulty, and prepared to leave. He then made (homosexual) advances. He stuck his hand in my pants. By this time in my life, I had earned a 4th degree black belt in karate, but right then, I couldn't have punched my way out of a wet paper bag. I stumbled out to my truck and remember thinking that I needed to find someplace to pull over and take a nap. As I pulled out onto the main road (a left turn), the centrifugal force laid me down on the seat and I was powerless to stop it. I pulled myself backup where I could see, and crashed into the back of a small car. I remember seeing the hood crumple. I rolled down my window and hollered, "Sorry!" Then, in my stupor, I felt like I should pull off the road. As I turned the truck, I crossed over into the oncoming traffic and hit another vehicle. By the end of it all, I had crossed through a busy intersection, and ended up in the parking lot of a Holiday Inn. I don't remember the trip there, though. Total score: Seven vehicles totaling $75000 in property damage, and $8500 damage to my truck. I remember being removed from my truck at gunpoint, (an off-duty policeman was one of the witnesses), and having blood drawn at the scene for blood/alcohol level testing. I ended up in the "drunk tank". I found a place to sleep, and passed out. When I awoke, there were many more people in the holding cell. I had a terrible headache, and a booking slip. The piece of paper said that among other things, I was being charged with two counts of leaving an injury accident. My alcohol level had been .28, which was 3 1/2 times the legal limit. I had no idea whether I had killed someone, or to what extent any injuries were. I had hit rock-bottom. After being bailed out by my boss, who had faith in me, I waited for my court date. I appeared on the specified day, and was told that I needed legal representation. I replied that I couldn't afford one and asked the court to appoint one. The judge knew how much I made, and informed me that I could afford one. So I found a DUI attorney, but he needed a $500 retainer before he would take the case. I didn't have that kind of money, I was paying child support to my first wife, and had been living in my truck because I couldn't afford an apartment and still keep myself supplied with beer. So I called Dad. I explained the entire situation to him. At this point in his life, he had been a devout member of the LDS (Mormon) Church for many years, as had I at one time. I knew how he felt about alcohol use. Nonetheless, he sent me the money to retain legal counsel. I know that at that time, (among others) I was a great disappointment to him. But he displayed Unconditional Love, like he always did. I vowed to make it up to him. I knew I would probably never pay him back the money, and so did he. But I really tried to regain my former level of esteem in his eyes. That was more important to me than anything. Prior to my final court appearance, it was "requested" that I meet with an alcohol abuse counselor. This counselor's recommendations would then be forwarded to the Court. The counselor asked all the standard questions, and then, in an effort to understand why I drank, asked how I felt about my mother and what my relationship was with her. Maybe they thought I hated my mother or something. I answered that I loved my mother and she was a good woman, etc. He then asked the same questions regarding my father. I looked him in the eye, sat up straight, and proudly replied, "My father is an officer and a gentleman." That said it all, as far as I was concerned.
I was sentenced to 180 days, suspended all but 5 days. This was due partly to a dozen or so letters of character reference from associates and friends, and I believe partly because of the counselor's recommendation. I "did my time" and started my climb back to society.

There were other occurances in my life that probably disappointed Dad, but he was always there for me and always had good advice for me. It was left up to me to decide whether to heed it or not.

Flying

2008-10-12T14:04:00.000-07:00

(photo used by permission)

First Phantoms at MacDill. I think Dad could be in there somewhere among the flight crews.

Dad was born to fly.When he was growing up, his big brother, John used to make free-flight airplanes and they would take them out to an open place and release them. They would follow them visually, maybe on their bicycles, maybe in a car, and retrieve them at the end of their flight. I guess that when Uncle John built them, he set the flight control surfaces (rudder, ailerons, horizontal stabilizers) so the aircraft would fly in a wide climbing spiral. After the engine or rubber band stopped, the plane would glide in a downward spiral to the ground. Dad would talk about times when the wind might catch the plane, and it might head off for “parts unknown”. I wish I could have seen them. Uncle John grew up to be an airline pilot. . .a darn good one (it ran in the family). He retired as a Senior Pilot for United Air Lines. He had flown 747’s from Los Angeles to Hawaii (and back). The airline called him “back into service” to train new pilots (sound familiar?), and he also flew as a flight engineer at times. Of course, Dad had to fly too. About the time he got into the Air Force, jet fighters were being developed and improved at an astounding pace. Dad flew, in a relatively short span of time, the F-84F, F-84G, and the first of the “century fighters” the F-100. I think he flew the F-100 longer than the other two. The early “century fighters” were fast, dangerous, and sometimes nothing more than a ‘test bed’ for new developments in aircraft technology. The F-100 was the plane the Thunderbirds were flying when I first became “interested” in flying. Although, even as a young (4-5 year old) boy, I could identify an aircraft by the sound it made when it was taking off. Since we lived on base, I grew up hearing jets flying all the time. When the Air Force decided to replace the F-100 as a front-line fighter, they went to the F-4 Phantom II. The Air Force “borrowed” some F-4B’s from the Navy, who was already using them. One of the first operational squadrons in the Air Force to use the F-4 was the 4453rd based at MacDill AFB at Tampa, Florida. This occurred in 1963. I remember Dad telling us about the F-4. It was a huge aircraft. Loud. Smoky. Powerful. Fast. And my Dad got to fly them. I remember that President Kennedy made a visit to Tampa in November of 1963. We drove down to the motorcade route, and got to see the President and First Lady drive right in front of us. It was the 18th of November, 1963. Less than a week later, the first operational mission for the 4453rd CCTS was to participate in a flyover for President Kennedy’s funeral. My brother seems to remember Dad being at home during the funeral, so he may not have participated in the flyover. He is probably right, although even if Dad had flown in the funeral, he probably wouldn’t have talked about it much. He wasn’t much on “bragging” about his exploits. After we left MacDill for Davis-Monthan AFB in Arizona in 1964, Dad found a small airstrip on the outskirts of Tucson where he would occasionally rent a light plane and take (depending on the capacity of the plane) one or more of us flying. I remember he used to rent a plane called a “Citabria”, which was “airbatic” spelled backwards. A lightweight, maneuverable, top-winged tandem aircraft. He would take me up in the Citabria, and tell me how to control the airplane. Since my legs weren’t long enough to reach the rudder pedals, he would coordinate the rudder for me in turns. Then he would take the stick, “rattle” it to let me know he had the aircraft, and he would show me something else to try. I remember one time we were in a steep left banking turn, and I looked out the window and saw a house on top of a mountain. I distinctly remember the brilliant blue-green of the water in the swimming pool in the back yard. By this time, I think he was already an instructor in the F-4. He showed me “what” he taught. He told me to make sure my belt was tight, and then all of a sudden we were upside down and spinning toward the earth. I doubt that he was trying to make me sick or anything, I think he just wanted to see if I had the “right stuff”. Even plummeting toward earth (probably much slower than it appeared to me) I had no fear because I trusted in my Dad’s skills implicitly.
I remember about this time period, Dad had a subscription to “FLYING” magazine. I would read them from cover to cover every month. Sometime during 1965 or 1966, they ran an article about a plane called the “Aircoupe”. It was a very simple airplane to fly, and had no rudder pedals, only a brake pedal on the floor. It could take off at 60 mph, and could literally be flown out of a supermarket parking lot (a big one, admittedly). From that point on, that airplane was the plane of my dreams, and I vowed that someday I would own one, or at least fly one.
Dad rented a Cessna 172 one time and took the whole family up at once. Each of us kids got a chance to “fly” the plane for a little while. I remember feeling kind of smug when, during Bryan’s turn, he gradually lost 300 feet of altitude, while during my chance at the controls I kept my eyes glued to the “artificial horizon”, one of the gauges that indicates whether the aircraft is going up or down I was able to maintain altitude, but realized that flying wasn’t as “laid back” as I had thought. During my turn, I saw little of the scenery, because I was so busy trying to show Dad I could “do it”. Of course, if Dad had engaged the autopilot, we all could have watched the scenery. But I think he wanted us to know that flying can be work. After the divorce, and after Dad had retired from the military, he worked at an aircraft sales company about 30 minutes north of where we kids were living (with Mom). He called one day to ask if we would like to drive up to the airport and help him wash an airplane. After we got that done, he would take all of us kids for a ride. Never one to turn down an opportunity to fly, I jumped on it, and very soon Bryan, Sandy, Kathy, and I were heading for the airport. When we pulled into the GA (general aviation) area of the airport, my eyes took in a glorious sight. Airplanes! Lots of airplanes! And, if you looked real hard, there, on the other side of the runway, was a little red Aircoupe! I hoped that I might get a chance for a closer look at it, maybe while Dad was flying with one of my siblings. We found Dad where he said he would meet us, and exchanged hugs and greetings etc. He then led us over to the plane we were to wash: THE red 1946 Aircoupe. The plane of my dreams, and I was going to get to not only rub my hands all over that thing, but I was going to get to FLY it!! Was it just Chance that the Aircoupe needed washing, or did Dad know of my infatuation with that plane? I don’t know, and I don’t care. I got to fly that plane. As soon as Dad got it off the ground, he told me to take the aircraft. He directed me to climb to a specific altitude, and turn to a certain heading. After probably no more than 10 or 15 glorious minutes of following his instructions, we were once again lined up with the runway for landing. Dad told me to cut the throttle a little, and where I should keep the horizon, but he hadn’t taken the wheel back, and the ground was getting closer by the second. I don’t think I was ever scared, but I was still relieved when (literally) in the last few seconds before touchdown he gently took the wheel and said, “I’ll go ahead and take her in.” We lightly touched down seconds later. People talk now about a “bucket list”, or a list of things they want to do before they die. I had no idea back in fifth or sixth grade what a bucket list was, but flying an Aircoupe was the first thing on mine. I was able to “cross it off” my list that day. Thanks, Dad.

Herbie

2008-10-10T14:23:00.000-07:00

When I was in third grade, Dad took the family for a drive. We ended up at a kennel. I remember a large yard with dogs running all around. There was this one puppy, a young Basset Hound (about six months old), that ran in front of us. As it passed in front of us, its front legs seemed to buckle. Unfortunately, his back legs hadn't gotten the message that he had "tripped" so they continued to run. This caused the puppy to slide along on his chest for a few feet. That was our first encounter with Herbie. He came home with us that very day. Officially, on the Pedigree, his name was "Fields Colonel Herbert", but we never addressed him by his rank. He was just "Herbie". As we had no fenced-in yard, he would run freely around the neighborhood. We didn't worry about him, he stayed pretty close to our house when he was out. He would be in and out all day, and would sleep indoors at night. He was one of those dogs that was born with patience. He had to have patience, with four kids to play with. We lived in Largo, Florida at the time. That area of Florida was terrible for dogs. He would come home infested with ticks. At first, we didn't realize he might be infested, until one of us kids would find a tick on ourselves. That dog would sit patiently while Mom would get tweezers and pull ticks off of him. He didn't yelp, or try to run away, even when we pulled them out of his ears or from between his toes. I think he knew that we were not hurting him intentionally; rather, for his own good.

He went out one night like he always did. While watching television, we heard skidding tires and yelping. He had been walking across the road, and a car came up the street. He didn't get out of the way quite fast enough. Of course, we all ended up outside. The car had run over, or at least "pinched" one of his hind feet. The driver had stopped, and had carried him up to our house. (Are there still people like that nowadays?) Herbie was limping around while my parents were talking to the apologetic driver. I guess some of the neighbors had heard the tires and yelping, because soon there were lots of people out in our front yard. I remember the boy next door must have been in the bath when it happened, because he was standing out in the yard with everyone else, wearing only a bath towel wrapped around his waist. We then noticed something: the larger the "audience" was, the more severe Herbie's limp became. What a ham! He was practically back to "normal" the next day.

After we left Florida, we went to Tucson. We had a small back yard that was "fenced" by a cinder block wall. That was where Herbie spent most of his "outdoor" time. I say 'most' because I think he missed big yards and/or no fences. So, when given the opportunity to escape through a door left open too long or too wide, he boogied. Cries of "Herbie's out!" would ring out from kids all along the street. Those that weren't afraid of him would assist in catching him and returning him to the house. Mom would put an old bedspread on the couch at night, and he would sleep there. During the day, the spread would be folded and put on the floor in the entryway, and he would take his naps on it. We used to say, "time to make Herbie's bed" before we would go to bed every night.

A few times during his life, he would contract "mange" or something similar. He would get big red "raw" patches on his body. It always looked like he had a bad case of "road rash", and it must have hurt a lot. Mom would take him to the vet, and he would prescribe a medicine that came in an aerosol can. We were to spray the raw patches with it, and the stuff was supposed to go away. We could tell after the initial application that it must have stung like crazy. You could almost "see" him grit his teeth when it was time for his treatment. He would sit there, and maybe flinch a little when the spray hit the wounds, like maybe there was a lot of alcohol in it. But he would not try to get away, or snap at us. After his treatment, he knew to go to the back door. He would be let out and then he would go nuts! He would run all over the yard and raise a ruckus, like his tail was on fire. After a few minutes, the stinging would stop, and he would settle down and come back in and everything was fine until it was time for another "treatment". Then the whole scenario would repeat.

I don't know how or why Dad picked Herbie for us. There were certainly younger, more "puppyish" dogs to choose from. I had "made friends" with a couple of daschunds at the kennel while were looking around, but Dad wanted a bigger dog. He made the right choice. Herbie lived a long life (more than ten years) and never changed. Never got grumpy, just older and grayer. The last month or so of his life was tough for him, and all of us. I remember that late fall/early winter day that Mom took him to the vet. He had gotten weak, and moved a lot slower. That doesn't mean HE slowed down, he still attempted to welcome you home and still thought of himself as our watchdog, but even his tail-wagging was slower and more feeble. Anyway, Mom had taken him to the vet, and I had gotten in my car to go somewhere and passed her on her way back from the veterinarian's office. I figured she was coming home "alone", but when I got home, Herbie was still with us. He lived another month, and passed away early Christmas Morning. Mom woke me while it was still dark, and told me he had just died. She had sat up with him all night trying to keep him comfortable. Wanting to get him out of sight before the other kids got up, I told Mom to get me a couple of garbage bags. One went over the front, and the other went on from the rear. I then put him in a box and put his body out in the garage. I woke my brother Bryan and told him what had happened, and together we cleaned up the kitchen floor. Everything was cleaned up before my sisters got up. Our family had a Christmas tradition. Anything "from Santa" could be opened, played with, etc. immediately. However, before we could open presents under the tree, we had to have breakfast. We usually had a coffee cake that Mom would make. (Do you know how LONG it takes for a coffee cake to bake when there are presents waiting to be opened?) We were sitting at the table eating breakfast, when my sister Sandy looked around and asked, "Where's Herbie?" We informed her and the others that he had died. My brother and sisters started crying. Sandy was hysterical, and cried the longest and loudest. Finally, everyone settled down, and we went to the living room to open presents. Since Mom and Dad were divorced by this time, Dad wasn't there, but he was going to come by and open presents with us. When he got there, I was worried that he might say something "wrong" (inquire as to where Herbie was, or how he was doing) and get Sandy started up again. So I tried to catch his eye soon after he got there, but I couldn't quite get his attention. The longer he was there, the more tense Mom and I got. Finally, I asked him if he would like a cup of coffee. He replied, "Sure, thanks". I said, "Good, you can come fix it". He laughed, rolled his eyes, and followed me into the kitchen, where I quietly informed him of Herbie's passing. He thanked me for telling him, and for telling him in the manner that I did. He treated me as a man, an equal, that day. I had always wondered at what point in his life a boy became a man. Not physically, but emotionally. When could a boy call himself a man? I now know that on that Christmas morning, I became a Man. My mother told me pretty much the same thing a day or two later. What made me a man? Being able to "take charge" in a bad situation? "Knowing" how to break the bad news? Buying a car? Having a job? My parents were different now: they were fellow adults and they treated me as one from that day on.

I later learned from my mother that my father wept that day. Not only for Herbie, but for all of us. Herbie had been around for most of our (the kids) lives. Dad knew the pain we were feeling, and knew that there was really nothing that he could do to ease our pain.

Tough Times- 1969-1973

2008-10-10T13:34:00.000-07:00

Dad returned from Viet Nam safely in the fall of 1968. We were next assigned to Eglin AFB in Fort Walton Beach, Florida. And, since school had already been in session for two or three months, I was again the new kid. But, remembering the “success” I had being a smart-aleck, I figured that it might work in school there. What a let-down! After about two weeks, a girl leaned over in class and asked me, “Where was it that you came from?” I answered that I had moved from Missouri. Without missing a beat, she said, “Why don’t you just go back?” I was crushed. New lessons learned: Nobody likes a smart-ass, and, Dad was right: just be yourself. If people only like the person you are trying to be, then how long can you BE that person? Just be yourself, and those that like you will always like you. Actually, it made things a lot easier. I didn’t have to have two “sets” of behavioral rules. I didn’t have to turn off the disrespectful clown act and turn on the good son act any more. Not that I was perfect. Remember how I said that I had gotten lazy at school? The studying (or non-studying) habits that I had developed during my 8th grade year and the first part of my 9th grade year had carried over. It was really hard to buckle down and DO my school work again. As a result, my grades plummeted. Our grade cards were given to us by each teacher for that particular course. I had a whole stack of BAD grades, and was scared to show them to my parents. Mom kept asking me when did report cards come out? All of a sudden, the NEXT report cards were coming out. I had sat on my grade cards for over a month! So, one afternoon, I slipped my (old) report cards onto Dad’s desk. He was at work, and I got out of the house ASAP to postpone the inevitable. Finally, I could stay out no longer. . .I had to go home. When I got home, I noticed Dad’s car was there. I walked in and tried to get to my room. Dad saw me, and called to me. About the time I got to the door of his study, the pounding in my ears was overridden by the sound of my mother crying hysterically in her bedroom. Dad looked at me, held up the report cards, and said very quietly and sternly, “Don’t you EVER do this to your mother again.” That was all he said, but it spoke volumes. I had to go to summer school to pass Algebra 1 so that I could get on to high school. Then, I was a sophomore. I had the same problem buckling down and doing the work. I went to summer school to get driver’s education out of the way, so I could try to get my required courses taken. In the meantime, Dad got sent to Korea. My grades continued to suffer and I think I realized that maybe, just maybe, I was worried about my Dad. I tried applying myself and doing the work, with limited success. Dad developed a heart problem and was taken off flying status, and sent home from Korea. I figured that maybe after all of his service years, he might not have to go away any more. I was wrong.
I remember one Sunday morning during my junior year in high school. I had begged off from going to church that morning, and Dad had worked the night before, so he didn’t go. We were sitting in the kitchen having a cup of coffee or something, when he started to talk. He and Mom were having some problems. I know now that he was broaching the concept to me gradually, but at the time, it was devastating to me. There existed the (remote) possibility that he might go away. Again. Only this time, it was for keeps. After what seemed to me and my siblings as an eternity filled with anxiety and pain, (and most assuredly Mom and Dad as well), they were divorced in the summer of 1971. It was only somewhere in the neighborhood of 6 —8 months, but it seemed a heck of a lot longer. During this period, Dad set out to buy Mom a car. I got to accompany him on some of his “window shopping” trips to the car dealerships. I got to sit in a Lotus on one trip. We ended up at the local Chevy dealer and I saw a 1971 Malibu 350. It was red, and had a 4-speed. Oh, how I tried to convince him that Mom NEEDED that car. He countered with the comment that it was going to be Mom’s car, and she didn’t need to be shifting gears all the time. I knew he was right, just the same. . . She ended up getting a Sunflower Yellow Malibu 350 with a white vinyl top and (sigh) an automatic transmission. It was a nice car, and I got to drive it occasionally. But, that left the ‘64 wagon for me to drive. Dad’s car-buying days weren’t done, though. He was also looking for a new car for himself. He had it narrowed down to a Datsun 240-Z or a Volvo 1800E. I secretly hoped for the Z-car, but he opted for the Volvo. One of the most beautiful cars ever made, and at the same time, one of the ugliest cars ever made. Until you slid into the leather seats and turned on the Blaupunkt FM radio and cranked the air conditioner to full blast. Add to that a 4-speed, fuel injection, and electric overdrive and you had quite a machine. Dad stopped in for a visit one day shortly after the divorce, and I was looking at the car. I noticed cat hair all over the back seat of the car. I commented on it, as I had thought that he wasn’t crazy about cats. “Well, my wife has two cats”. Bomb number one. I asked, “Anyone I know?”, knowing full well that I probably didn’t know her. As it turned out, it WAS some one that I had met before. She and her husband had come to our house to teach Mom and Dad to play pinochle. I remember the day clearly, because I found the game to be boring, and my brother and I went out to play one-on-one football in the yard. During the game, he was carrying the ball and I lunged at him and tried to trip him. I ended up stepping (hard) on his ankle. Games over. The football game ended because my brother was screaming in pain. The card game ended because someone had to take my brother to the hospital. I had broken a little tiny bone in his ankle. But, because just about every leg movement one can make affects the ankle, he was put in a hip cast. So I remembered the woman. “And, around the middle of next summer, you are going to have a little brother or sister.” Bomb number two. But, I accepted both facts with the proper amount of apathy. Of course, as the time grew nearer for the baby to be born, I mellowed just a little. It wasn’t going to do anyone any good to hold a grudge against a baby. (I must add that I got over my grudge with my stepmother. It took a while, but I did it. I realized that my father had picked her, and that she made him happy. I had no right to try to stifle that. And, she is actually a wonderful woman. She is not my mom, but still a wonderful woman. I regret having wasted the years that I did, not knowing her like I do now.) The summer after I (finally) graduated, I got a baby sister. My brother and I drove up to Montgomery, Alabama where Dad was attending the Air War College to see the baby. I hadn’t seen my stepmother since the pinochle/football games. The baby was beautiful, as all babies are. Dad took us to a movie while we were there. “What’s Up, Doc” was the movie we saw. Dad laughed through the whole movie. It was good to hear him laugh. The next day, we drove back to Florida.
I got a job as a busboy at the local Sheraton, and started thinking about a car. All I had was a motorcycle, and despite being in a “tropical” state, winters are cold. Especially on a motorcycle. Dad went with me to look for cars. We found a really nice light brown ‘69 Mustang with a 3-speed/6-cylinder engine. We both drove it and decided that I was a good car. The next day, I rode the motorcycle to the used car lot to put some money down on it. Well, it was gone. Somebody else had bought it. I remember that it had rained that day, a good Florida rain. So, the streets were still damp, and there were lots of puddles. I ended up at another dealership to see what they had. I found a ‘69 Dodge Dart about the same shade of brown as the Mustang was. I looked it over, there was some slight body damage, but the price was about what I figured I could afford. I asked to test drive it, and they let me. I was still 17 years old! I drove it carefully through some neighborhoods and on a couple of “main roads”. (Remember, the roads were still wet.) So I was being real careful. The car drove nicely, and the AM radio and air conditioner worked. I put $25 down on the car that very day, and went on my way to get hold of Dad to tell him about it, so he could arrange financing on it. He would take out the loan, and I would make the payments. The next day, of course, I went back by the dealership to look at “my” car. I opened the hood and looked at the engine. (I didn’t really have any idea what I would be looking for, but that’s what you are supposed to do, right?) As I closed the hood, I noticed some “decorations” on it. The decorations said “340 Four Barrel”. Yep, you guessed it. I asked if I could drive it again. The salesman said, “Sure, after all, it’s your car”. I might add that the weather was gorgeous that day. I idled out of the dealership lot and got on a side road and stomped my foot down. Holy Crap! That car just flat got up and MOVED!! I just grinned all the way back to the car lot. Financing went through a day or two later, and that car and I started wearing out (rear)tires. Of course, when Dad was riding in it, I “behaved”. He thought I had made a good choice, and inferred that I needed to make sure the money was there for the payment each month. It felt good knowing that my Dad approved of my choice, and that he was willing to put his credit reputation on the line for me. I made every single payment, sometimes in cash and change on the due date, sometimes early enough to mail it in. But I paid for it. Every darn cent.

Right after I got The Car, I also got a new job that paid a little more, and had potential for a career. I got a job as a machine shop helper at a local defense contractor. I worked in the machine shop as a “grunt”, then was sent to the welding shop to be a grunt there. I would test things we built for leaks, and if there were any leaks, I was to get a welder to come over and fix it for me. The guys in the shop got tired of having to fix holes, so the foreman taught me how to weld enough to melt the metal and let the hole seal up. Additional lessons followed, and I became proficient enough to not have to ask for help much at all. During this time, I decided to enlist in the Air Force. I needed eyeglasses so I figured that flying fighters was probably out of the question. But, I figured that maybe I could use not only the great benefits, but get some schooling as well. Maybe pick up a little more discipline at the same time. I spent a lot of time at the recruiting office. I asked the magic question: “What kind of job could I get in the Air Force?” Sgt. Mashburn told me that they didn’t know yet, but there was a battery of tests that I would take, then, based upon my scores, they could give me a list of all the jobs I qualified for. So, on a Saturday afternoon, four other young men and I took the tests. We were told that the results would be back the following Tuesday. So, that next Tuesday, I stopped by the Recruiting office. I asked Sgt. Mashburn what jobs I qualified for. He picked up a really thick binder and tossed it at me. “Pick one”, he said. “You qualify for every position in the book.” He elaborated, “You had a 95 in Electronics, a 95 in Math, a 90 in Mechanical and an 85 in Clerical. All those jobs have a listing as to what your minimum scores need to be to qualify for them.” So, instead of browsing through the book, I asked him what the Top Electronics job was. He recommended “Precision Measuring Equipment Specialist.’ So that is what I picked. Evidently, major corporations wrote to the Air Force every year asking what PME’s were getting out that year. Then they walked right into $25,000 (or more) a year jobs right out of the Service. Now, I know that 25K isn’t really a lot of money now, but in 1973 it was a LOT of money, especially for a starting wage. So, I was on my way. I took the bus up to Montgomery to take my military physical, and took another series of tests. I had done everything except “raise my hand” to take the oath. I kind of held off going in for a little while, and had to wait for the proper time to join up so that my Tech School (at Lowry AFB at Denver, my grandmother Fields lived right across the fence) would be starting right after basic training. I had also entertained the notion of going to college if I didn’t go in the service. Finally, the day arrived for me to get on the bus and head off to Basic Training. I was supposed to be on the bus at 4:30 that afternoon. At 2:00 that afternoon, I was at the recruiting office telling Sgt. Mashburn ,“I don’t think I want to go.” I told him that I was learning to weld, and that I had a girlfriend that really wanted me to stay. He tried to talk me into it, but admitted that it was, indeed, my decision whether I went in or not. I left the office, still a civilian. I continued to learn to weld, and was making pretty good progress. Then, disaster struck. I got laid off. There might have been some warning, but I did not see the signs. We were almost at the end of a contract, and needed to downsize until work picked up again. Not only did I lose my job, my girlfriend dumped me, and it was right after the registration deadline for the local junior college. I got a job in a small steel shop for about a month or so. That ended after I showed another guy who came looking for a job how to gas-weld some steel. Well, he showed the boss the pieces that I had welded, not the ones that he had tried to weld. So, they let me go, and he got hired because of my skill. Fed up with Florida and the crummy job market at the time, I called Dad. By this time he was stationed at the Pentagon, and lived in Virginia. I asked if I might come for a visit/move up there. He said yes, and since I didn’t have any money, either he or Mom bought me a plane ticket to Washington D.C. By this time, my baby sister was about 18 months old. She attached herself to me almost immediately. Since she couldn’t say “Roger” yet, it came out “Bobbee”. When she would wake up, she would start calling “BOBbee, bobBEE.” I decided to try to find a job there. Dad took me over to the Toys ‘R’ Us store in Fairfax, Virginia where I asked if they were hiring. The manager came over with some papers and handed me some, and handed the rest to a girl who also was applying for a job. One paper was an application, another paper was a test. Math problems, logical thinking, attitude and aptitude. The last piece of paper was blank. He explained that it was “scratch paper” for the test. So, the girl and I started our paperwork. I was just about 2/3 of the way through a nasty case of sinusitis at the time, and felt like crap. But, with Dad waiting, I needed to get the test done. I told myself that I would not use the scratch paper. So I didn’t. I did all of the math in my head. At the conclusion of the test, the manager came over and collected our papers. He picked up my application, glanced at it for a moment, picked up my test, checked the answers, and glanced at my scratch paper. He picked it up, looked at it and turned it over. One side was as blank as the other. He looked at me with amazement, said that nobody ever did that, and asked me when I could start, all in pretty much the same breath. I arranged for a start date, and Dad drove me back home. On the way, he was just about bubbling with pride and enthusiasm about my “amazing” feat. It felt good to make him feel good. There is nothing like a shower of Father’s Pride to bolster your attitude.

Viet Nam Airstrike

2008-09-29T19:09:00.000-07:00

Since Dad was a really good pilot, and was an instructor in the F-4, he was tasked with giving a "check ride" to a newly arrived pilot. In the briefing prior to the flight (a combat mission), Dad instructed the new guy on the proper way to fly the mission. He told him that they would stay at altitude until right over the target area, dive down and deliver the ordnance, and get the heck out of there. Evidently, the new guy thought he had a better way. Since the new guy was, essentially, the "pilot in command" on this mission, he flew in the front seat, and Dad rode in back. (The F-4 Phantom is a tandem seat aircraft). Instead of flying the target approach like Dad told him to, he came in low and shallow, possibly thinking that they would be hidden from radar or something. Well, people on the ground started shooting at them. According to the story, the new guy said something to the effect of,"They're shooting at us, sir!" Dad replied, (I can almost hear his calm, businesslike voice)"Well, they are missing us." Not quite true. They were struck by ground fire over the target. They were able to return to base safely, and after taxiing to the parking area, shut down the aircraft and exited the plane. Dad apparently grabbed the new guy by the collar of his flight suit and dragged him underneath the aircraft. He then pointed to a bullet hole in the bottom of the aircraft. According to the Air Force Battle Damage Report, the round struck the aircraft forward and to the side of the forward missile station. The Phantom can carry certain types of missiles under the fuselage. The forward missile station is underneath the cockpit of the airplane. The bullet came up through the bottom of the plane between the forward and rear seats. I was able to get the aircraft number (64-0806) from the battle damage report, and track down the aircraft. The aircraft managed to evade the scrapyard at the end of its career, and is now "guarding the gate" at Nellis AFB in Nevada. I managed to find two pictures of the aircraft: one in Viet Nam, and one on display. In the picture from Viet Nam, there are two aircraft. "Dad's plane" is the one on the left, with closed canopies. I wish to give special thanks and recognition to Albin Szuromi for his kind permission to use the Nellis photo.

1968

2008-09-24T18:24:00.000-07:00

Versailles Missouri
Dad got orders to Viet Nam, so he moved the family back to Versailles, MO where my mother had grown up, and grandparents and aunts and uncles and cousins lived, while he spent his time in Viet Nam. I was again the new kid in town. I was used to that. What I wasn’t used to was the fact that everybody knew everybody in town, and I didn’t know anybody. Except my cousins. And maybe one or two kids that I had met over the years during visits. In fact, it was one of those kids that helped me break the ice on the first day of school. Jeannie Washburn, a friend of my cousin Cindy, dragged me all over school introducing me to everyone. It didn’t really help much, but I have always appreciated her efforts. I had moved from a town of 325,000 people (Tucson) to a town of 2047 people. There was quite a difference. The educational standard was a little more lax in Versailles. As a consequence, I was not really challenged academically, and got lazy. I didn’t do much, if any, homework and still managed to pull in passing grades. ‘Which does not always help one make friends. Additionally, I was small and shy. Which made me an easy mark for a group of, well, bullies in my class. As the town was so small, the 7th and 8th graders had to ride a bus over to the high school for band class. So, after a hurried lunch, the band students would wait for the bus to the high school. This translated into just enough time for these guys to pick on me. I suffered the standard “frogs” to the upper arm, being shoved between them like a hot potato, etc. One of the final straws was when they all grabbed an arm or leg and carried me out the door and dropped me on the sidewalk. I had always refrained from telling on them for fear of additional retribution, but I finally went to the office and reported them. After all, my back was skinned up and sore, and by then I was afraid. Really afraid that I might really get hurt. So, I reported the four or five of them and managed to get back out to catch the band bus. After we returned to our school, the principal requested that these boys report to the office. Well, all but one were called to the office. I think they forgot to write his name down or something. Anyway, it got them off my back for a little while. Then one day, while boarding the band bus, the “leader”, who happened to be the only one not called to the office, blocked my access down the aisle of the bus. I told him to leave me alone, and he punched me on the arm. I saw red. I immediately punched him back, fully aware that I could have just signed my “death warrant”. I didn’t care anymore. You could have heard a pin drop on the bus at that moment. Then, he moved and allowed me to proceed down the aisle. I was nervous for days, wondering what fate would befall me for my insolence. I needn’t have worried, because school was out shortly after that, and all of us spent our time dreading “freshman initiation”. At the county fair, toward the end of summer, that was when it started. Upper classmen would catch an incoming freshman, take his pants, and throw his pants on top of one of the buildings. I wasn’t hard to retrieve your pants, but you had to climb up on the building in your underwear, and you could be seen by anyone and everyone. They didn’t catch me, but some of the other guys did get caught. Dad had always told me that if you stood up for yourself, people would respect you for it. I guess he was right, again. Of course, I still had to start school again. Only this time, I wouldn’t be one of the “upper classmen” like I had been the year before. Now I was back at the bottom of the food chain, and there were guys that were three years older than me. Knowing full well that I was going to get picked on, I decided that I might as well ask for it. I became a smart-aleck. In that town, high school football was followed by some of the people, but BASKETBALL was “where it was at” in that town. So, the “jocks” were the Basketball players. Tall guys. I would see some of them in the hall, with their girlfriends. I would brazenly walk up to the girlfriends and put my arm around them, and say something dumb like “when you gonna dump this clown and be with me?”. Not once did I get creamed. Here I am begging for a whuppin’ and I get voted the friendliest person in the school!! I thought I had it made. In the meantime, Dad was doing his job in Viet Nam. I remember a small article in the paper detailing an airstrike he had been on. His flight had been directed toward against an ammo supply convoy and had caused many secondary explosions. I guess the secondary explosions were reaching 300 feet high. I was proud, but Mom told me not to discuss it too much, because there were probably some people in town that were not as supportive of what Dad was doing. I didn’t understand, but I kept quiet about it.

2008-09-21T19:14:00.000-07:00

When we were in Tucson, stationed at Davis-Monthan AFB: August ‘64 -August ‘67
We had a ‘64 Chrysler Newport 9-passenger station wagon, and Dad was preparing for a family vacation/camping trip to Yellowstone. Well, not just to Yellowstone, but a “visiting” vacation. We stopped to see Uncle John and Grandma in Colorado, and Aunt Jean in Albuquerque. We had gone to Sears and bought all kinds of camping equipment: air mattresses, sleeping bags, a camp table, six folding camp stools, a camp stove, camping cookware, two single-mantle lanterns and fuel, an 11’ x 11’ x 9’ canvas umbrella tent with aluminum poles and frame, and don’t forget the fishing tackle. As the time grew nearer for our departure, I think I wondered ,“how are we going to fit all this stuff AND the family of 6, PLUS clothes, coolers, snacks and Herbie, the Basset Hound into this car?” Well, Dad must have thought about that as well, because he came home one Saturday with a bunch of plywood and stuff. He drew some lines, got out his trusty hand saw, and got to work. Soon, a large flat wooden box began to take shape. At the time, I didn’t quite make the connection. That is, until I had to help him put this box on top of the car. It was a masterpiece of planning and engineering. The roof of the station wagon had a slight “crown” to it, as well as longitudinal stiffeners. Dad had shaped the side-to-side bottom stiffeners on the box (there were probably 4 or 5 of them) so that they not only were notched to fit over the stringers on the roof, but the notches were also different depths to match the crown of the roof. And, it fit like a glove THE FIRST TIME we put it on the car. It had eye bolts to tie it to the luggage rack, latches to hold the lid on, weatherstripping to keep the contents dry (which came in REAL handy on the trip), and it held EVERYTHING we needed for our camping trip. I was in awe of my father. I had never seen him do a lot of projects; yes, he had a small toolbox and an electric drill and a hand saw, but aside from hanging a picture now and then, or helping my Cub Scout brother build Pinewood Derby cars, I didn’t really notice him doing many crafts. Having been in manufacturing for more than thirty years with experience ranging from shop helper to supervisor to designer/drafter, I [now] know what went into building that box. Dad had to analyze the volume of everything that was to go into the as-yet unbuilt box, design a box that encompassed that volume with a specific “footprint”, build the box, fit the box to the top of the car without actually putting it on the car, and make sure it had structural integrity (the speed limit was still 70 mph back then). That’s a lot of wind trying to work its way into every seam for hours on end. That box was quality. There was no “rattle” room in that box when it was finally loaded for the trip. Everything fit perfectly. Just like it was supposed to. Oh yes, one other thing. He built a dog bed to fit over the transmission hump between the front and middle seats. It spanned the width of the car, had risers to make sure it was level, and two pads to “hug” the hump. Another engineering marvel.
In 1965, I was in fifth grade. Midway through the school year, we started studying about Southeast Asia. We learned the names of the countries, and got to color maps and stuff. About the same time, Dad came home one night and said that he had to be gone for a while. When we pressed him for details, he said he was going to “Southeast Asia”. I ran to my room and got the map that I had colored at school. He looked at it, smiled, and said, “I’ll be somewhere on that map”. Satisfied with the answer, I went on about my normal life. Somehow, without going into detail, Dad had conveyed the message that WHERE he was going was not as important as WHAT he would be doing when he got there. I had always known that my Dad’s job was “special”. I remember clearly being four years old and telling people that my daddy worked at the Air Force Base. Of course, for most of my early years, we lived on base, and all my neighbors “worked at the Air Force Base” too. Even then, I knew that Daddy’s job was important. I knew that if something bad (I didn’t know exactly what) happened, that my Daddy would get in his plane and go fix it. Mama would stay home with me, my brother, and my sister, and he would come home after he fixed it. I think it was instilled in me even then,that: My Daddy loved me and the rest of my family, but someone had to do what he did, and that our Country took precedence over everything else. In later years, Dad expressed regrets for “not being there” during a lot of my growing up. I told him that I fully understood why he did what he had to do, and that I, and many others, respected him for his commitment to America. I think they call it Patriotism. But, back to Southeast Asia. While serving his tour somewhere in Southeast Asia, he wrote quite a bit and sent many large boxes. They contained bronzewear eating utensils. Well, they were gorgeous, with their polished bronze knives, forks, and spoons with teak handles. There was one large set for our family, and I think a few smaller sets for relatives. Of course, we hardly ever used them, maybe once or twice at Thanksgiving or something. And he sent us kids some presents too. I don’t remember what he sent me now, but I remember that it was unique. . .something you just couldn’t find any old place. Dad returned safely and later on, we were told that he had been in Thailand. Yep, it was on my map. During his entire absence, I never once wondered where he was in Southeast Asia. I just knew that he was doing his job, and that was good enough for me. Did miss him when he was gone? You have no idea how I much missed him, but there was a sense of Pride knowing that he was good at his job, and he was doing it for his Country.
I remember one night in Tucson, we went to see a movie in town. As an extra added bonus (to me) we took the girl that lived up.the street from us. She happened to be my “girlfriend” at the time. We played all kinds of games, we shared her binocular microscope, we rode bikes together, I think we had a “club”, but we were the only members. We were involved in every way, except romantically, looking back. Anyway, we had never kissed, and we worked out a plan so that I could get dropped off at her door and the family would drive, about three more houses down, to our house. While we were alone, we were going to have that kiss. Well, I broached the “walk her to her door” idea, and I think Dad thought it might be a gentlemanly thing to do. Only problem was, they were planning to wait right there until I returned to the car! Well, a guy can’t get any privacy with his whole family watching. I kept telling him that I had promised her that I would walk her to the door and say goodnight. I guess I finally convinced him that I could be dropped off and that I would be right home. We got dropped off, and set about preparing for “the kiss”. Unfortunately, nobody had let HER family in on the plan, because the porch light came on immediately, and the front door opened to let her in. Our best-laid plan had gone awry. With an unspoken promise of “next time” in our eyes, we said goodnight and I walked the short distance to our house. Our empty house. Looking back, I think Dad was teaching me something. While my failed romantic interlude was taking place, or not taking place, the family went for ice cream. I missed out all the way around. Life is tough when you are in sixth grade. The lesson? Always keep your word no matter what the consequences may be, so make sure you see the bigger picture before committing yourself. If I had just kept quiet, she might have been able to go with us for ice cream. And then there might have been a better chance after the ice cream. Or did the plan for ice cream happen after I was dropped off, to teach me the lesson? I will never know.
In 1965 or so, I was finally old enough to join the Boy Scouts. Dad had been a Boy Scout. I was excited to follow in his footsteps toward manhood. The base had a troop, so I didn’t have to be trucked off-base to go to Scouts. And, after a few times of being taken, dropped off, and picked up, I figured I knew the way to the Scout Hut, and besides, a bunch of the guys in my class rode their bikes to and from Scouts. So I started riding my bicycle. Sometimes, depending upon the time of year, there was still plenty of light left in the day to see well enough to ride home after Scouts. Other times of the year, it was almost dark before I even left for Scouts. On one of those evenings, I had my Scout flashlight with me. It had a ring that folded out from the end that I guess you could hang it by in your tent or something. Well, riding a bike with one hand and holding a flashlight with the other was kind of difficult, so I slipped the ring over my handlebars. That the light was pointing straight down didn’t seem to matter at the time. Although, it did seem to matter to the Air Police that “pulled us over”. Specific details are hazy, but our bikes ended up in the back of the A.P. pickup truck, and we were each driven to our respective homes, where the officers spoke to our parents and left it in their hands. At my house, Dad wasn’t home at the time so they talked to Mom. She expressed concern over my riding my bike at night as it was, because it might not be “safe” for me. She worried that someone might try to “hurt” me. I responded that she didn’t need to worry, because I was on base, right? I will never forget the look on her face. Nothing dramatic, just a combination of immediate understanding, and sadness that she had to shatter an illusion. All my life, I had lived under the impression that if you were in the Air Force, no matter what your rank, you were the same kind of man that my Dad was. All of my Dad’s friends, all of my friends’ parents (officer or NCO, it didn’t matter) were cut from the same cloth. They were honorable, good people. Yes, some of them cussed occasionally, but never around the children. I only know that some of them swore because I happened to overhear them in another room, or across a fence. But that didn’t make them “bad”, because if they were bad, they wouldn’t be allowed to be in the Air Force. When Mom told me that yes, sometimes bad people were in the Service, it set me back a little. For me, it was a real eye-opener. Did it change my opinion of the Air Force personnel that I came in contact with? NO. Mom and Dad just hadn’t exposed us to any “bad” people. In later years, I met all types of people that were in the military. I respected them all for their service, but some of them, I wouldn’t want my kids to be raised around them. And it still bugs me to hear news reports about the arrest of a serviceman from the local base. I always think back to that night in Arizona when I realized that America was indeed the land of opportunity, and that all types of people were entitled to the opportunities afforded by the Military. Why can’t they all be like Dad? People I knew, or knew their kids. People like Claude (Spud) James. His dad was Colonel Daniel (Chappie) James. His dad went on to become a 4-star general in the Air Force. And, his dad was able to get me an autographed photo of the Thunderbirds demonstration team. It was a picture of them flying in formation while streaming smoke. Each pilot had signed his own smoke stream. And speaking of the Thunderbirds, I was “sweet” on a girl that lived up the street from us. Actually, I knew her brother first, then I met her at school. Their dad was Major Tom Swalm. Their dad later became the flight leader for the Thunderbirds. Great pilots, and great, honorable men. Just like my Dad.
When we first moved to D.M., we were running around the still-empty house and yard when we noticed the kids next door. The first thing I noticed was that there were two little girls about my sisters’ ages, and a boy about my brother’s age. That made me older. The second thing that I noticed was that they were Negroes. Race had never been an issue in my family. And besides, if their Daddy was in the Air Force as a pilot, he was a good man. The Taylors were really nice people. And we kids spent lots of time playing with their kids. Another family moved in across the street from us. The Funderburg family. They had a boy my age, Chuck. We immediately became best buddies. They and the Taylors were good friends and socialized together occasionally. I remember asking Chuck one day why his hair was so curly. He said that was just how it was. And that was good enough for me. I asked him why he didn’t hang around with this one particular girl who was a friend of my current “flame”, then we could all hang out together. After a year or so, Chuck’s family moved off-base and I didn’t see him very often at all after that. One day, I was talking to David Taylor, the neighbor kid and he said, “You know, Chuck is like me”. I, being somewhat naive, didn’t quite understand. Until he added, “You know, a Negro”. Gee, I never made the connection. The Taylors were very dark, almost black, and the Funderburgs were very light-skinned. So I responded, “Oh”. Like,” is that all? Big deal.” It made no difference to me then, and it makes no difference to me now. These kids’ dads were Fighter Pilots in the Air Force. That was the only qualification, if any were needed at all, that I even thought about. I would love to get in touch with David Taylor and Chuck Funderburg sometime. They were my friends. Neither of them, I would wager, thought it made a difference back then, and probably still feel the same way now. There were other families “of color”, of course. Their kids were in my classes at school. I played with them at recess, and danced with them at the Youth Center dances on Friday nights. Color was never an issue, and nobody (not even the adult chaperones at the dances) ever said a word about interracial dancing or anything else. I was never told NOT to associate with anyone because of color or creed or religion. I liked a girl who was Jewish by faith, even had dinner at their house. Yes, their beliefs were and are different than mine, but so what? It would have gone against my Dad’s teachings to have discriminated against anyone. I am thankful to have not been taught prejudice.
I remember sitting around the dinner table one evening. I must have been in sixth grade. Mom was talking to Dad and whatever topic it was, Mom was relating how she had dealt with a situation of some sort. Something about telling someone one thing, but not everything. Not really a lie, just not all the facts. To me, it sounded like she had lied. I started chanting, “Mommy is a liar, Mommy is a liar”. I got through about two repetitions when I caught my father’s stare. The chanting ceased immediately. Dad didn’t have to raise his voice. He quietly told me to never speak about my mother in that way again. I never did. Because, as soon as I caught his look, I knew I had messed up, and had jumped to conclusions. As it turned out, my mother had been making the best of an awkward situation and was tactfully, but honestly, dealing with an obnoxious person. Lesson learned? I can’t really attribute this one to Dad, I mean, he didn’t come up with the idea. “Honor thy father and thy mother all the days of thy life.” Have you ever noticed, in that commandment, that the honoring doesn’t stop when they die? It will only stop (not really) when YOU die. But, since grandparents are somebody’s parents, then my children should honor the memory of my parents, and so on: ad infinitum.

What it's about. . .

2008-09-21T18:20:00.000-07:00

My father was a fighter pilot and instructor in the U.S. Air Force. This blog is a "draft", if you will, of a tribute to him, and those like him. It is a history of my life, and the effects his lessons and examples had upon the shaping of it. As my recollections tend to follow no chronological order at times, a small bit of history is required so that any readers will be able to know at what time in my life the related stories occurred:

I was born in 1954 at Tyndall Air Force Base (Panama City, Florida).
We were stationed at Misawa AFB in Japan, Cannon AFB (Clovis, NM), Dad got out of the Air Force, we moved to Evergreen,CO, where he was recalled to active duty, then MacDill AFB (Tampa, FL), Davis-Monthan AFB (Tucson, AZ),Dad went to Southeast Asia while we were in Tucson. He returned, and then a few years later went to VietNam. The family moved to Missouri while he served in VN. He returned, and we went to Eglin AFB (Fort Walton Beach, FL). My parents divorced in 1971. He went on to the Air War College, and served in the Pentagon until his retirement from the military at the end of 1973.

That should be enough to figure out when things happened. More to come, stay tuned. And, if you have comments and/or corrections, please contribute.

Roger